


here comes the spark

by canistakahari



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Emetophobia, Friends With Benefits, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Roommates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke needs a roommate and Fenris needs a place to live. The logic of what follows might be easier to see if Varric hadn't already tricked Hawke into agreeing to let Fenris move in, but hey. </p><p>At least Fenris is really, really hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sincerest thanks to the friends that helped me finish this at all by providing constant support and reassurance along the way: [psikeval](http://psikeval.tumblr.com/) and [dirtymackem](http://dirtymackem.tumblr.com/) for betaing and brit-picking, and [affectingly](http://affectingly.tumblr.com/), [radiophile](http://radiophile.tumblr.com), [anaeolist](http://anaeolist.tumblr.com/), and [aplethoras](http://amoktimes.tumblr.com/) for alpha reading. <3 <3 <3
> 
> This story is **complete**. I will be posting a new chapter once a week. I will also be updating content tags for chapters as they're added.
> 
> Title from Tegan and Sara's "Closer".
> 
> Hawke/Fenris is endgame.

Hawke desperately doesn’t want to be awake right now.

 

The sun is still up. He doesn’t work until 10 PM and he’s not hungry or thirsty nor does he need to pee but when his phone rang two minutes ago, Hawke made the mistake of answering it. Varric was on the other end, so Hawke pulled his duvet over his head and accused Varric of trying to kill him. A perfectly reasonable response, considering the circumstances.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Varric is saying mildly. “Were you asleep?”

 

“You know very well I was asleep,” groans Hawke. “It’s between the hours of 10 AM and 6 PM. Of course I was asleep. _You knew I was asleep_.”

 

With the predictability of the incoming tide, Hawke hears the scratch of big paws at his closed bedroom door.

 

“I thought it was later in the day,” says Varric. “Sorry.”

 

“You’re not sorry at all,” mumbles Hawke, balancing his phone on his ear and trying to ignore the insistent whimpers drifting faintly through the door. “You’ve woken Dog. She thinks it’s time for breakfast now. We can’t be friends any longer, Varric. This is a grievous insult against my person.”

 

“You could put your phone on silent when you go to bed, like everyone else,” says Varric. “This is in no way my fault. Listen, did you forget? I’m coming over tonight with Fenris to help him move in.”

 

Hawke turns his face into the pillow, trying to make sense of the words but also smother himself at the same time. If he passes out, he can go back to sleep. “I’m sorry. You’ve just said something, and I know it probably has meaning, but I can’t work it out right this second. You’re doing what with whom?”

 

Varric lets out a deep sigh. “You’ve _really_ gotta stop answering your phone when you’re asleep. You don’t remember me mentioning Fenris at all? Last week?” His voice is far too innocent for whatever scheme he’s cooked up. “...Hawke?”

 

“Hang on. I have to free the dog from her hallway exile,” Hawke sighs.

 

She’s whining, increasingly distressed by Hawke’s inattention, so Hawke drags himself out of bed, resigned at last to rude, early wakefulness. There are clothes all over the floor. Hawke navigates to the door with his eyes mostly closed, nearly slipping and braining himself on the wall before he manages to grab the door knob and let Dog in. She barks, shouldering inside forcefully and pushing against his thigh.

 

“And the answer is ‘no’,” Hawke adds, pinning the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he crouches to scrub at Dog’s floppy ears. “I don’t remember you mentioning anyone named Fenris. And you know what else? I think you _knew_ I wouldn’t remember, if you just happened to call me last week in the middle of the blessed day to tell me about him. What have you done? What have I agreed to?”

 

“You said you wanted a roommate to help with the rent, didn’t you?” says Varric cheerfully. “Fenris really needs a place to live. His landlord is selling the apartment he was renting. You need a roommate, he needs a room. It’s perfect.”

 

“And you’ve already told him yes,” says Hawke, gently pushing Dog’s muzzle away and getting to his feet. He doesn’t know where his glasses are. Squinting vaguely into the distance, he walks to the kitchen and opens the cupboard to retrieve Dog’s food. “Brilliant. Tonight, you said?” He rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “Who is this person? More importantly...is he fit?”

 

“I don’t know about his exercise habits, Hawke,” says Varric.

 

Hawke groans. “Ugh, Americans. Is he _attractive_.”  

 

“Oh, no no no,” Varric says firmly. “No. Under no circumstances, Hawke. Fenris is off limits. Anyway, I think the two of you will get along like a house on fire.”

 

Hawke stifles a yawn. “I already have Bran for that.”

 

Varric makes a disparaging noise. “Like I said, please don’t replicate your...Brandon _situation_ with Fenris. Please.”

 

“It’s not a situation,” says Hawke, opening the bag and leaning over the counter to shake dog food into Dog’s bowl. Most of it gets on the floor but Dog cleans it up for him. “It’s...an arrangement.”

 

“I think the word you’re trying to think of is ‘hate-sex’,” offers Varric.

 

“That’s two words,” says Hawke around another yawn, leaning on the counter and closing his eyes. “Two very strong words.”

 

“No, there’s a hyphen. Anyway, we’ll be there just before six. Try and clean the place up a little?” suggests Varric. “At least pick everything up off the floor.”

 

“If Fenris can’t accept that I’m a slob, it’s never going to work out between us,” Hawke says solemnly. “Better call off the wedding sooner rather than later.”

 

“You’re a riot,” says Varric, audibly rolling his eyes. “See you later, Hawke.”

 

“I await your arrival with bated breath.” Hawke ends the call and drops his phone onto the counter.

 

“I hope he likes dogs,” Hawke says to Dog, peering down at her. “We’re not going to get along if he doesn’t.”

 

Dog barks once and goes back to her breakfast. Hawke sighs.

 

For a little while he tries to go back to sleep, but after the call with Varric he’s well and truly awake so he just ends up playing Bejeweled in bed until he drops his phone twice in quick succession onto his face. It feels like a sign that he’s finally ready to go back to sleep and with Dog pinning him to the mattress escape is impossible anyway. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’s the most exhausted he’s ever been.

 

“This isn’t working,” he announces to the ceiling, five minutes later. “C’mon. Get off,” he says plaintively to Dog, pushing at her shoulder. “Please just let me live.”

 

Dog snuffles at his hand, licking his fingers, and Hawke groans. “Do you want a treat? I’ll get you a treat if you give me my body back, you manipulative beast.”

 

With a happy bark, Dog leaps off the bed and barrels into the kitchen. Hawke gets out of bed, finds his glasses hanging out of the pocket of his bathrobe, and slides them onto his face.

 

From the kitchen, Dog barks again. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

 

By the time Hawke bribes Dog with a bacon strip, it’s nearly four o’clock. He spends the next half hour half-heartedly picking things up off the floor and putting them onto couches and tables instead.

 

At five, he sits down on the couch to take a quick break and the next thing he knows, Varric is standing over him yelling, “— _Hawke_!”

 

“Jesus _shitting_ christ,” yelps Hawke, jerking awake in an electric rush of hot panic and falling right off the couch. He hits the ground with a thump, cracking his elbow on the floor and biting out a pained, “fuck!” which alerts Dog, who steps heavily over him and starts soothingly bathing his face with her tongue.

 

“Oh my god, please help me,” whimpers Hawke, turning his face away from Dog’s tongue and putting his hand out to push her muzzle away. His elbow is no longer an elbow and is instead a singularity of focused, buzzing pain radiating up and down his arm and Hawke’s pretty sure Varric is _laughing_.

 

“C’mon, princess, Hawke’s not hurt, he’s just an idiot,” Varric says, tugging on Dog’s collar. It’s a paltry attempt to free him and Dog doesn’t even budge.

 

“Speak for yourself,” says Hawke petulantly. “I think my arm is broken. I am a wreck of a human being.”

 

“Well...that’s an accurate statement, yes,” allows Varric. “Come on, you giant hellbeast, leave the pathetic human alone.”

 

Hawke gives Dog one last encouraging shove and she steps back and sits on her haunches, panting. With a grunt, Hawke grabs the edge of the coffee table to lever himself up, wiping drool off his face. Once he’s upright, Hawke can see that Varric is flanked by a person who is, presumably, Fenris, wearing an expression of, presumably, veiled judgement.

 

Presumably Fenris is slim and has poor posture, shockingly white shaggy hair, dark skin, and narrowed green eyes. The little voice in Hawke’s head that’s almost entirely responsible for his bad decisions whispers _Oh no, he’s hot._

 

“Ah, right,” says Hawke, locking eyes pleadingly with Varric. “You’ve come to move in.”

 

Varric mouths _No_ very firmly and then says out loud, “Yeah, you caught us. Please tell me the second bedroom is fit for habitation.”

 

“But you haven’t even introduced us,” says Hawke, struggling awkwardly to his feet and brushing dog hair off his rumpled pyjamas. His hand, sticky with saliva, collects the dog hair instead of banishing it to the floor. He gives Fenris a hopefully charming smile. “I’m Hawke. I won’t make you shake my hand until I’ve washed it. Do you like dogs? I hope Varric told you I have a dog.” He gestures at Dog. “Her name is… Dog.”

 

“I like dogs,” says Fenris slowly, staring steadily at Hawke with something that might be dawning horror on his face. “I am Fenris. It is… nice to meet you.”

 

Hawke’s mouth drops open, a little thrill running through him at the depth and cadence of Fenris’s voice. He also tries to ignore the insincerity dripping from the word “nice.”

 

“Well!” says Hawke loudly, clapping his hands together. “I suppose you want to see the room.”

 

“Before you embarrass yourself further would be great, Hawke,” says Varric.

 

“Excuse you,” mutters Hawke.  

 

“I’m excused,” snaps Varric.

 

“I’d love to see the room,” says Fenris, sounding pained. Hawke doesn’t think Fenris has ever loved anything in his entire life. Hawke also wants Fenris to step on him. Preferably naked.

 

“There’s not much to see,” says Hawke, scratching his beard and leading them down to the hall. He opens the door to the empty spare room and, blessedly, nothing has moved in since he last looked inside. It still contains a double bed, a desk, and an old, lumpy, over-stuffed armchair that used to belong to Hawke’s father which Hawke kept in the living room until he couldn’t bear to sit in it anymore. He shrugs and gestures at the room. “I don’t really use it. It’s clean and furnished. Apart from the dust, I mean.”

 

“This is more than fine,” says Fenris, putting the duffel bag he’s holding onto the floor.

 

“Do you have more stuff?” asks Hawke. “Do you need me to lift things for you?”

 

“I can lift things for myself, thank you,” says Fenris dryly.

 

“I didn’t mean you can’t!” Hawke rubs the back of his neck and wishes he could burrow into his mattress and nest there forever. Being awake during the day is terrible. He doesn’t recommend it. “I’m just good at lifting things. That’s all. I don’t have many other skills.”

 

“Spare me from this mental anguish, please,” says Varric under his breath. “We’ve got stuff in the car. If you really want to be seen outside your building in little duckie pyjamas, Hawke, be our guest.”

 

“Ah,” says Hawke, looking down at himself and plucking at his flannel pants. “Right. They were a gift from Bethany.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“I think they’re sweet,” says Hawke defensively. “I’ll go… get some boxes from the car. You can show Fenris where everything is.”

 

He goes back into the living room to find his glasses, which probably fell off in his sleep, and retrieves them out from under the couch. From the spare bedroom, he hears the low murmur of Fenris’s voice, and Varric’s more audible reply: “He’s usually asleep at this time of day, but to be honest, I don’t know if that really makes a difference—”

 

Hawke digs his trainers out of the hall closet and pulls them on, then grabs the first piece of outerwear he finds, which is, inexplicably, an old terry-cloth bathrobe that’s seen better days. Tugging it on, he pockets his keys and his phone and heads down to the parking garage.

 

Varric’s car is parked next to Hawke’s, the backseat piled high with boxes and duffel bags. He stands there for a minute, wondering if he can carry it all at once to save himself additional trips, and then rolls up his sleeves.

 

“Well! Good morning, gorgeous,” calls Isabela, crashing through the doors of their apartment building and coming over to join him next to Varric’s car. “You’re looking…” she hesitates. “Like a hot mess, to be honest. I take it back. Are you lost? Are you _drunk_?”

 

“I’m offended you think this is what I’m like drunk,” scoffs Hawke, opening the back door and starting to remove the car’s contents. “I’ve acquired a new roommate and Varric has corralled me into helping him move in.”

 

“You mean Fenris?” asks Isabela, crossing her arms and watching Hawke lift a box, her gaze fixed on his arms. She looks like she’s going out for the evening, wearing a white blouse, a pencil skirt, and an enormous feathered hat, her bag over her shoulder.

 

“Yes, him,” grunts Hawke, stacking another box on top of the one in his arms. “White hair, angry face, tight arse. Tattoos, I think? I’ve been tricked into this, I’ll have you know. Were you aware this was going to happen?”

 

“I may have had an inkling,” Isabela says evasively. “I know Fenris, as well. I introduced him to Varric, actually. You won’t even see each other, Hawke. You work opposite schedules.”

 

“I’m less upset, now that I’ve seen what he looks like,” Hawke allows. “Do us a favour and grab that box. Put it on top of the ones I’m holding.”

 

“Can you see?” asks Isabela dubiously, obliging his request after he’s ducked down low enough for her to reach. The box does, indeed, restrict his vision.

 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t have to go far.”

 

“All right,” says Isabela. “I’m off. Keep me updated on any Fenris-related shenanigans.”

 

“I’ve been made to promise no shenanigans will occur,” mourns Hawke. “Talk to you later.”

 

“Bye, darling. Don’t fall down any stairs.”

 

Isabela, presumably, leaves, though Hawke can’t be certain because she’s too short for him to see beyond the tower of boxes in his arms. Craning his head, Hawke slowly makes his way back to the stairwell, running into the wall only once. He leans on the “push to open” button with his elbow, stumbles into the opposite wall, and nearly sends all three boxes flying.

 

“I should not have been trusted with this task,” mumbles Hawke, climbing the stairs back up to his apartment.

 

He doesn’t encounter any other logistical errors until he actually reaches his closed apartment door, bumps right into it, and then stands there, confused.

 

“Varric,” he calls plaintively. “Please let me in.”

 

Nothing happens. They’re probably ignoring him. His arms are beginning to ache just a little. He remembers he has feet with which he could knock at just about the same time that the door swings open and he ends up kicking somebody right in the shin.

 

“Sorry, sorry!” says Hawke. “Shit, is that Varric?”

 

A pair of hands removes the top box from his field of vision and Hawke finds himself staring into sullen green eyes and a face pinched with pain and annoyance. The face does not, in fact, belong to Varric.

 

“Ah, Fenris,” amends Hawke, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. Again.”

 

“Thank you,” says Fenris through his teeth, tucking the box against his chest. It doesn’t sound like gratitude. They’re off to a fabulous start. ‘Like a house on fire,’ Varric had said. If that’s the case, then Hawke should probably call the fire department.

 

Hawke bends to set the other two boxes on the floor just inside the door. “I’ll get the rest,” he says and practically sprints away from Fenris’s palpable disdain.

 

His phone rings on his way down the stairs and he’s going to decline the call until he sees that it’s Bran.

 

“You have the worst timing,” Hawke says when he picks up. “Why is everyone calling me during the day when you all know I should be sleeping? Monsters.”

 

“Well you’re clearly already awake,” replies Bran. “I’m not responsible for how other people choose to annoy you.”

 

“Unless you’re calling to volunteer the services of your dick, Brandon, I don’t really have time for this today,” says Hawke, sighing. He exits the stairwell and leans against the hood of Varric’s car, rubbing sleepily at his face. “I’ve been conscripted into helping someone move.”

 

“How dare you,” murmurs Bran, sounding distracted. “Booty call cancelled. I’ll weep bitter tears, bereft, for the rest of the evening.”

 

“Did you call for a reason?” demands Hawke archly. “Or is this your daily allotment of passive-aggressive bad humour before you return to whatever it is you do when you’re not interrupting my day?”

 

“What?” says Bran. “Oh. No, I suppose I had a vague interest in sex, but it’s gone now. You’ve spoiled it with all your complaining. You’re particularly insufferable today, Garrett, have they discontinued your favourite cereal again?”

 

“No, but thank you for your unsolicited opinion,” says Hawke. “Your feedback is very valuable to me.”

 

Bran lets out a deep, shuddering, world-weary sigh. It’s the kind of over-dramatic gesture Bran excels at accomplishing without expending any energy at all. “I’m hanging up now. Go back to infuriating someone else.”

 

“Love you too, darling,” coos Hawke.

 

“Ugh,” mutters Bran, and hangs up.

 

“Did you get lost?” demands Varric, appearing at the stairwell doors, Fenris trailing reluctantly behind him like a moody storm cloud.

 

“I got a phone call,” protests Hawke, brandishing his phone at him. “I’m a very important person!”

 

“And how is Brandon?” drawls Varric, coming over to open the back door of the car and hand a box to Hawke.

 

“I could have been speaking to someone else. You don’t know my life. Bran is delightful, as ever,” says Hawke. He glances surreptitiously at Fenris, who seems very dedicated to the activity of ignoring them. Hawke accepts another box from Varric and heads back up the stairs.

 

By the time they get everything unloaded, it’s half past seven.

 

Varric stays to help Fenris get sorted and unpacked, so Hawke assumes he’s being freed from moving duty. He makes strong espresso, takes a shower, puts in his contacts, and eats dinner in front of the television. At quarter past nine, he changes into his scrubs for work, finds his keys, and pops into the second bedroom, where Varric and Fenris are still opening boxes.

 

“I’m off,” he says. “I’ll be back ‘round half six and I’ll try to keep it down when I get in. I’ll be on my phone all night if you need anything.”

 

“Try and actually do some work in between rounds of Tetris,” suggests Varric.

 

“Ha,” says Hawke. “Ha ha ha, joke’s on you, I deleted Tetris.” He glances at Fenris and gives him a nod. “Welcome to the… erm. Madness?”

 

Overcome by the sheer magnitude of his own stupidity, Hawke doesn’t even wait for a response before he ducks back out and sprints to the door.

 

oOo

 

Work is extremely slow, which makes it very difficult for Hawke to stay awake, despite the espresso.

 

He texts Varric irritably until Varric stops replying, probably having gone to sleep like any reasonable human. For a little while, Hawke plays 2048 on his phone, then he answers a few calls, most of which require him to lift people from one location to another. He changes some diapers, administers two sponge baths, and then a resident falls out of bed and for about half an hour there’s a mild emergency to attend to.

 

During break, he sets an alarm and takes a twenty minute nap on the couch in the break room, waking up to his phone serenading him with ‘Shake it Off’ and the truly stressful sight of Anders peering down at him.

 

“Auugh,” says Hawke, covering his face. “Please don’t do that.”

 

“You’re taking up the entire sofa,” protests Anders, smacking Hawke in the leg. “And a little more.”

 

He means that Hawke’s feet are hanging off the end. His height can be a problem in small spaces. “Pardon me for existing,” mumbles Hawke, sitting up and rubbing groggily at his eyes. He checks his phone. Still a third of his break left.

 

Anders makes a noncommittal noise and sits down next to Hawke. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

 

“What a question,” says Hawke, getting to his feet and approaching the vending machine. “What _isn’t_ the matter with me?” He feeds it two crinkled bills and watches the bag of Doritos he selects get caught on the hook. It seems to be an apt metaphor for Hawke’s life.

 

“You could just answer the question like someone who isn’t, well, _you_ ,” complains Anders.

 

Hawke mournfully rests his face on the glass and stares at the bag, caught tenuously between freedom and despair.

 

“Are you referring to the bag, or yourself?” asks Anders curiously.

 

“What?” says Hawke. He splays his fingers out on the machine’s glass, separated from his dinner by scant inches.

 

“Being caught tenuously between freedom and despair.”

 

Hawke blinks and weighs the pros and cons of shaking the vending machine. The warning sticker is very clear about the potential outcome of trying to wrestle his snack free. “Oh. Did I say that out loud?”

 

“Here,” says Anders, and when Hawke turns around, he’s being offered two dollars. “This is too pathetic to watch. Just take it.”

 

“I’ll pay you back,” promises Hawke, accepting the money and offering it in sacrifice to the vending machine. Two bags of Doritos fall free this time. It’s a miracle.

 

“Don’t strain yourself,” mutters Anders, closing his eyes and tipping his head back on the couch. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

 

“How magnanimous of you.”

 

“That’s me,” mumbles Anders. “That’s my picture in the dictionary, under the entry for ‘magnanimous.’”

 

Hawke just answers him with loud, satisfied crunching.

 

oOo

 

When he finally gets home at six thirty in the morning, the sky has turned pink, and the only thing keeping Hawke from going straight to his bedroom and collapsing into bed is the fact that he’s _ravenous_.

 

Usually he’s awake for the rest of the morning, doing errands, laundry, or just playing video games; he doesn’t go to sleep until around 10 AM. As soon as he fills the void in his belly, though, he’s going to bed, and sleeping through until his alarm. No meddling Varrics to wake him today.

 

And, really, it’s not like he intentionally forgets that Fenris is around. It’s been months since he’s had to be considerate of another person in the apartment. It’s been a long night, okay.

 

He’s tired, and hungry, and he just wants something easy. Like toast. With peanut butter.

 

Hawke works in healthcare; he’s very conscious of washing his hands. He always washes them before leaving work and as soon as he gets home. It’s not until he’s put the bread in the toaster and gotten the peanut butter out of the cupboard, however, that he realises he’s still in his scrubs.

 

And, honestly—it’s not like he plans it!

 

It’s just that the toaster is old, and Hawke doesn’t clean it as often as he should, and it catches on fire a little bit.

 

Hawke has, at the exact moment disaster strikes, briefly relocated to the laundry nook to get undressed. He gets as far as pulling off his shirt and is in the process of undoing the drawstring on his trousers when the smoke detector goes off.

 

Then he remembers, very abruptly, that it’s barely seven AM and Fenris is _asleep_.

 

“Fuck,” he says, dropping his shirt. “ _Fuck_. Welcome to the apartment, Fenris, where everything is on _fire_ _—_ ”

 

He runs, half-naked, into the kitchen, where the toaster is ejecting plumes of smoke and the smoke detector on the ceiling is emitting a piercing supersonic screech. Fenris appears suddenly in the doorway alongside Hawke and they only narrowly avoid a collision.

 

“Pardon me!” Hawke yelps, dodging Fenris and sliding across the kitchen floor in his socks to reach the smoking toaster and unplug the cord. He grabs a tea towel and uses it to fan the smoke away from the smoke detector.

 

Fenris goes to the kitchen window, propping it open with the stick Hawke keeps on the sill.

 

“Bloody thing,” mutters Hawke, coughing. The wail of the smoke detector stops, mid-shriek. Hawke stands there for a moment, rubbing his face, willing the ringing in his ears to subside. When he turns back around, Fenris, in all his pajama’d, bed-headed glory, is examining the toaster. Hawke examines him instead; it turns out the tattoos spread from his throat and extend down his bare arms and legs in delicate unbroken curls of white ink.

 

“This is filthy,” says Fenris in a sleep-rough voice, picking up the toaster and upending it over the sink. He shakes out the charred toast and several loaves worth of charcoal crumbs. “You’re supposed to open the bottom every so often and remove the crumbs so they don’t burn.”

 

“What, you can’t mean _cleaning_ the toaster? I am far too busy a person for that,” says Hawke. “Good morning, Fenris. How did you sleep? I trust the bed was all right.”

 

“The bed was fine,” says Fenris, turning around to pin Hawke with very serious eyebrows and an expression of exasperated scorn. He’s still holding the toaster in his hands like he’s planning on taking it away from Hawke to protect it from further mistreatment. “I have no complaints about the bed.” His gaze flicks briefly down Hawke’s bare chest and then skips down below the waist.

 

For one hot, precious second, Hawke thinks Fenris is staring appraisingly at his dick. He entertains a brief fantasy where naked animosity morphs into undeniable sexual attraction and they launch across the room at each other, make out furiously, and fuck on the floor.

 

Then reality kicks back in, and Hawke realises Fenris is probably staring at the pattern on his scrubs.

 

“They’re dragons,” offers Hawke, clearing his throat. “My trousers. It’s little dragons.”

 

“I see,” says Fenris. His eyebrow twitches independently of the rest of his face, raising itself judgementally high.

 

Bethany buys Hawke all of his scrubs. Faithfully, for every birthday and Christmas, she buys him a set of scrubs, and over the years they’ve gotten increasingly ridiculous.

 

(“I don’t work in pediatrics,” he’d said to her once, unwrapping soft pink scrubs patterned with little green dinosaurs. “My patients are all over the age of eighty, Bethy.”

 

“They’re not for _them_ ,” she had said. “They’re for _you_.”)

 

“I’m a nursing assistant,” says Hawke lamely. “I work in a care home.”

 

“Mm,” says Fenris. He turns his back on Hawke to give the toaster one last shake over the sink.

 

“My sister buys them for me,” continues Hawke. “They were a present.”

 

“Like the ducks,” says Fenris mildly.

 

Hawke nods miserably. “Like the ducks.”

 

“If you will excuse me,” says Fenris. He puts the toaster back and plugs it into the wall. Then he turns and meets Hawke’s gaze and says, very deliberately, “I’m going back to sleep.”

 

“Excellent plan,” says Hawke. “I intend on joining you soon.”

 

The look on Fenris’s face tells Hawke his phrasing is poor before his own brain catches up. “In sleep,” corrects Hawke quickly. “In my _own bed_.”

 

Apparently they’re already at the point in their relationship where Fenris feels comfortable rolling his eyes in full view of Hawke. He’s quite good at it.

 

“I work the 11 to 7 shift, usually,” offers Fenris, hesitating in the doorway, perhaps feeling like he should share something of himself now that they’re roommates and Hawke has created a bonding experience for them via the medium of a small kitchen emergency. “I can walk. It’s just a block away.”

 

“That’s very convenient,” says Hawke, before he realises this is probably why Varric suggested Fenris move in with Hawke in the first place. He wonders if being able to get to work in five minutes makes up for having to live with him. It’s probably too early to tell.

 

“That was the appeal,” agrees Fenris dryly. “I—”

 

The door buzzer interrupts him, twice.

 

“It’s not usually this noisy in the morning,” Hawke assures him, pained. “I’m not sure who—”

 

The buzzer goes off again, and Fenris ends up following Hawke to the door as he leans on the intercom button. “Who’s this? Do you exist in the same time zone? It’s too early if you’re selling something. No solicitation!”

 

“Garrett, don’t be ridiculous, it’s _me_! I’m sorry, I forgot my key! Let me up, Dog is starving.” It’s Bethany. Darling Bethany, returning Dog after her morning walk.

 

“It’s my sister,” says Hawke, pressing the buzzer to open the door for Bethany. “She comes in and walks the dog in the mornings a few days a week. I really am sorry for all the chaos.”

 

“You do not need to apologise,” says Fenris, but he’s rubbing his eye tiredly as he says it, and Hawke doesn’t believe him.

 

“She didn’t know it wasn’t just me,” explains Hawke. “I haven’t had time to tell her someone’s moved in.”

 

Bethany knocks a moment later and Hawke unlocks the door and is immediately knocked to the floor by Dog.  

 

“You weigh one hundred pounds,” he wheezes at her, closing his eyes as she licks his face. “You cannot pretend to be a puppy any longer! Bethany, grab her collar, _please_.”

 

“Come now, sweet girl,” coos Bethany, gripping Dog’s collar and tugging sharply. “Don’t crush Garrett— _Oh_! Hello. I didn’t realise you had company, brother!”

 

With a final push against Dog’s chest, Hawke sits up and wipes saliva off his face, turning to look at Fenris, who is still hovering awkwardly near the kitchen doorway. “He’s not company, Bethy. He’s Fenris. He lives here now. Fenris, this is my baby sister, Bethany.”

 

“It is nice to meet you,” says Fenris politely.

 

“I’m so sorry,” gasps Bethany, covering her mouth with her hands and, in the process, letting go of Dog’s collar. Dog surges forward, cracking Hawke’s head with her muzzle. “I had no idea there was anyone here! I’m always up so early, I come and walk the dog, I’m _sorry_. I’ve woken you up!”

 

“You have not,” says Fenris reassuringly. “Hawke did that himself, when he lit his toast on fire.”

 

“It wasn’t properly on fire,” Hawke protests. He is reminded of his gnawing hunger and mourns the loss of his toast. “Just lightly smoking.”

 

“Well, I’ve brought you breakfast,” says Bethany. “So there’s that, at least.”

 

With a final affectionate shove, Hawke gets Dog off him and stands up, pulling Bethany into a hug and kissing her loudly on the top of her head. “You’re my favourite sister.”

 

“I’m your _only_ sister,” says Bethany, voice muffled by Hawke’s chest. “Ew, Garrett, you’re not wearing a shirt and you need a shower. Get off.”

 

“My favourite sibling, then,” corrects Hawke, ruffling her hair and releasing her.

 

“I won’t tell Carver, I suppose,” she sighs, straightening her clothes. “Fenris, next time, I can bring breakfast for you, too. I’ll leave it in the fridge like I do for Garrett, sometimes.”

 

Hawke is infinitely grateful he gets to bear witness to Fenris’s resultant blush. “That is very kind, but not necessary,” he says hurriedly. “Thank you.”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” says Bethany, waving a hand dismissively. “When did you move in? I used to live here, you know. I moved out last year.”

 

“Last night,” Hawke and Fenris say simultaneously, sounding equally despondent about it.

 

Bethany laughs. “An eventful morning, then. Goodness, I had no idea you were even here. I didn’t wake you up when I came in?”

 

“Evidently not,” says Fenris dryly. “I assumed the dog would bark at anything suspicious.”

 

“She doesn’t bark at me,” says Bethany, bending to pet Dog. “I’m usually quiet when I come in, anyway. I walk her on Garrett’s days off, as well, when he’s passed out until noon.”

 

“Please tell me I don’t have to have another set of keys made for you,” says Hawke. “Where did you lose them? Out of doors?”

 

“Oh, I didn’t lose them at all,” says Bethany. She goes into the kitchen and plucks her keys up off the counter. “I must have put them down when I came in and locked myself out. Right. I’m leaving you breakfast and then I’m heading to the library. I have an exam this afternoon.” She shrugs out of her backpack and undoes the zipper, removing a plastic bag and setting it down on the counter. “It’s only McDonald’s, the usual place was closed.”

 

“Manna from the heavens, honestly,” says Hawke, opening the top of the sack and sticking his face inside to inhale. “I had Doritos for dinner last night.”

 

“That’s awful,” sighs Bethany. She turns towards Fenris, who straightens up in the kitchen doorway, trying to pretend like he hasn’t been silently judging Hawke during the entire conversation. “Fenris, it was lovely to meet you. Sorry about all this.”

 

“Think nothing of it.” Fenris holds out his hand for a shake, but Bethany goes in for a hug instead; he is briefly startled, then returns the quick squeeze.

 

“Call you later, okay?” Bethany says to Hawke as she pulls away and shoulders her bag. “And check your email, I think Carver sent you something. Bye!”

 

“Bye, love,” says Hawke with a distracted wave, busy retrieving his breakfast from the bag. “Thanks for this!”

 

Dog follows Bethany to the door, her claws clicking on the linoleum, and Hawke can hear Bethany pausing to say goodbye to her, as well.

 

He pulls out his Egg McMuffin and sighs happily. “Would you like a hash brown? Bethy always gets me two,” he says to Fenris, mostly because he suspects Fenris will refuse. He doesn’t mention the two breakfast burritos in the bottom of the bag. Or the apple pie.

 

“No thank you,” says Fenris, his lips pursing like he’s hiding a smile. “I will attempt to go back to sleep. Enjoy your breakfast.”

 

Hawke watches him go. He suspects, despite the disastrous start, that at least things probably can’t get any worse. The same chain of events likely won’t happen again. He hopes.

 

He eats his sandwich in three bites, covers the hash browns in ketchup, and eats them over the sink while Dog whines at his feet and Hawke mumbles “You’re not allowed people food,” through a full mouth.

 

When he’s finished eating, he rations out Dog’s morning kibble for her, feels guilty about the lingering scent of sausage in the kitchen, and adds a can of foul-smelling wet food to her bowl. Belly full and Dog fed and watered, Hawke finally cleans up the kitchen, washes his hands, and finishes dumping his clothes into the washing machine. He nearly falls asleep in the shower, jerking awake twice before he musters the energy required to lather and rinse out his hair.

 

He’s on his way to bed, wrapped in a towel, when Fenris re-emerges from his bedroom.

 

“Have a good day,” says Hawke through a yawn, stepping to the side to let Fenris past him in the narrow hallway.

 

“Good night, Hawke,” says Fenris. He’s wearing a worn sweatshirt over his pyjama top, now, and the sleeves are too long, Hawke notices. They cover his hands. Unbearable.

 

“Not unless I successfully hibernate like a bear for the next six months,” says Hawke cheerfully. “But thank you. I appreciate the sentiment.”

 

Fenris’s eyebrows are so mobile. Very expressive. “You’re welcome,” he says flatly. Then he turns away and continues on to the bathroom and Hawke lets out a slow breath.

 

“Marry me,” he whispers.

 

“What?” says Fenris, half-turning.

 

“ _What_?” Hawke practically yells. “I said good night!” He slams his bedroom door and leans against it, heart pounding.

 

Smooth. So smooth. Hawke is a walking disaster.

 

oOo

 

“Then I said ‘Marry me,’ and he actually turned around,” says Hawke. “Take that pillow and press it gently over my face until I stop breathing, please.”

 

“I’d love to,” says Bran, “If it will end this painful adolescent regression.” He picks up a squashed pillow and starts to lower it over Hawke’s face with disturbing intent.

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” says Hawke, snagging Bran’s wrist to halt the looming downward motion. “Your eager compliance is worrying.”

 

“Your face is worrying,” mumbles Bran. He drops the pillow and it bounces off Hawke’s forehead. “Are we going to fuck again, or not?”

 

“I am trying to have a serious discussion with you.” Hawke rolls over so that he can prop himself up over Bran, then blankets himself over his chest.

 

“Oof,” grunts Bran. His eyes are closed and his face is shadowed in the dim light of his bedroom. He’s just a mass of rumpled red hair and pale freckled skin. “Garrett, your chin is digging in.”

 

“Are we cuddling? Is this what’s happening here?” asks Hawke mildly. “Dangerously close to relationship territory, don’t you think?”

 

Bran’s eyes open and even despite the lack of light, the look of disgust on his pinched face is clear. He groans and puts a hand out to push at Hawke’s shoulder. “Roll over.”

 

“Bossy. I’m not a dog,” says Hawke. “I didn’t hear a please. Or get a treat.”

 

“I cannot believe I regularly sleep with such an idiot,” mumbles Bran.

 

“Oh, who else are you sleeping with?” asks Hawke blithely.

 

Bran lets out a low, continuous groan and covers his face with his hands. “If you’re not going to roll over and spread your legs, get out of this bed right this instant. You’re banned. I hate you.”

 

“Well, I already knew that,” huffs Hawke, but he rolls over onto his belly and looks over at Bran, waggling his eyebrows.

 

“Ugh,” mutters Bran, smacking Hawke lightly on the hip. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to see your face. Don’t remind me what I’m willingly engaging in here.”

 

“You’re going to give me a complex,” says Hawke, resting his chin on his crossed arms and closing his eyes. “I’m very delicate.”

 

“Yes, you’re a proper wilting flower, Garrett,” says Bran, sounding vaguely exasperated. “That is exactly how I would describe you to my friends.”

 

Hawke can feel him shifting around behind him, then Bran’s hands settle on his hips, and Hawke obligingly spreads his thighs and yawns into the circle of his arms. “I’m your friend,” says Hawke. “If we’re being technical. Friends with benefits.”

 

“Or just ‘with benefits,” says Bran. “Did we ever even make it to the ‘friends’ portion? If you fall asleep while I’m fucking you, I am never letting you darken my doorway again.” Bran goes so far as pinching his rear, which, _rude_.

 

Hawke makes an irritated noise and squirms. “Please. This isn’t on me, love. If your dick doesn’t have the power to keep me awake, then unfortunately the blame falls squarely on you. Anyway, if I fall asleep, who cares? Just…” He lifts a hand and waves it dismissively. “Do your thing. I don’t mind.”

 

“That’s quite possibly the laziest thing you’ve ever said to me,” huffs Bran, settling between his legs and curling his fingers around Hawke’s hips, squeezing gently. “Only I don’t want you here tomorrow morning, petal.”

 

“Then _get on with it_ ,” groans Hawke. “Before we both die of old age.”

 

“You’ll get there first,” teases Bran, leaning over Hawke close enough that his lips brush the shell of his ear. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the charming silver, growing in right here.” He taps at Hawke’s temple.

 

“It’s premature. And distinguished,” grunts Hawke, brow furrowing. “ _I’m_ distinguished. You’re ginger. You don’t understand.”

 

“It’s a real pity very little you say makes sense,” murmurs Bran. He brushes his fingers down the dip of Hawke’s spine. “You’re not bad looking, and going to the gym every other day is really paying off.”

 

“Brandon, are you really going to sit there and just—”

 

Bran leans in, the head of his cock just catching at Hawke’s slick, loosened rim, and Hawke arches up, just a little, biting his lower lip at the brief, frustrating tease. The mattress dips, Bran planting his fists either side of Hawke’s head, and he uses this leverage to roll his hips hard enough to bury his dick balls-deep in Hawke in one easy thrust.

 

“That’s the stuff,” sighs Hawke, using his elbow to prop his body up high enough to draw his knee under his body, opening himself up to a better angle of entry.

 

“Hold still,” mutters Bran. “I thought you were going to go to sleep.”

 

“Still a chance of that,” says Hawke, jaw cracking on a yawn. He groans at a particularly deep roll of Bran’s hips, arousal pooling hot in the base of his gut. “Mmm. S’nice. You fuck like you’re singing me a lullaby.”

 

“What is _wrong_ with you,” says Bran, but Hawke grins into his hands at the poorly-disguised laughter in his voice.

 

“I’m funny and charming,” says Hawke through another yawn. He drops his head back down, groping for a pillow to jam under his neck.

 

“You never stop talking.” Bran leans in, hitching a hand under the knee Hawke has pulled up, and they both groan at his next thrust. “There’s a difference between ‘funny and charming’ and ‘repetitive useless commentary.’ What did you do with that gag I got you?”

 

Hawke rubs his face against his arm, sweat prickling on his skin as the lazy roll of Bran’s hips teases at his building arousal, toes curling. “It’s… in the drawer next to my bed,” grunts Hawke, increasingly distracted. “You should have kept it here if you actually wanted to use it.”

 

They rarely have sex at Hawke’s apartment. Bran has a bigger bed and has never had roommates.

 

Bran touches his forehead to the space between Hawke’s shoulders, panting breaths warming his spine.

 

While Hawke doesn’t think he’s actually going to fall asleep, now, he closes his eyes and lets Bran do all the work.

 

“I can’t reach your cock, you lazy bastard,” mutters Bran.

 

“You wouldn’t know what to do with it even if you could,” retorts Hawke.

 

“You—little _shit_ ,” gasps Bran, hips jerking as he comes. He pulls out and smacks Hawke on the arse. “Roll over.”

 

“Again with the bossy commands.” Hawke levers himself onto his back, dick slapping him in the belly. He peers up at Bran through half-lidded eyes, reaching for shaggy red hair and tugging on it.

 

Bran huffs and bats Hawke’s hand away. Then he descends on Hawke’s cock, swallowing him down with perfunctory efficiency, Hawke arching into the tight heat of his mouth with a startled curse.

 

“Now get out,” says Bran, when Hawke’s come and Bran’s spat gracelessly into a tissue. “I have work in the morning.”

 

“Romance is dead,” says Hawke gravely. He looks around for his clothes, spots jeans and hoodie and no underwear. Leaning over Bran’s legs, he picks up a sock. “This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife….”

 

Bran makes an exasperated noise into his pillow and buries his face in it. “I’m sleeping. Come back next week.”

 

Hawke takes a pair of Bran’s underwear and puts those on instead, sliding off the bed to collect the rest of his clothes, getting dressed piece by piece until he’s mostly fit for public again. He bends over Bran to kiss the top of his head. “Good night, snowdrop.”

 

“Get ooooout,” groans Bran, reaching up to blindly wave Hawke away. “Lock the door on your way out.”

 

Hawke collects his keys and backpack, finds his shoes, and lets himself out of Bran’s apartment.

 

It’s just about midnight when he gets home and Fenris is still up, sitting on the couch with a book.

 

“Ah, hello,” says Hawke, dropping down into the armchair and picking up the remote.

 

“Hawke,” acknowledges Fenris, though he doesn’t look up from his book. “I thought you’d gone to work.”

 

“Oh, no, I don’t work Sunday nights,” explains Hawke. “I had a date with Brandon, only he’s kicked me out because he works tomorrow morning. I think I lost my underpants.”

 

Fenris’s large green eyes lift slowly from the pages of his book to fix on Hawke’s face, one eyebrow inching up in a silent, damning question.

 

“I just took a pair of his instead,” says Hawke dismissively. He turns on the television and flips to the Food Network. “I promise I am wearing underpants.”

 

“What a relief,” says Fenris dryly. “The state of your drawers would have kept me up all night, had you not shared that vital information.”

 

“I’m starving,” says Hawke. “How about you? I’ll make pancakes.”

 

“I—”

 

“I’m making them regardless,” admits Hawke, getting to his feet and going into the kitchen. “It’s useless to say no.”

 

From the living room, Hawke hears Fenris let out a weary sigh. “Pancakes sound…nice.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hawke puts his foot firmly in his mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a slightly earlier update for a slightly shorter chapter that didn't take too long to edit.
> 
> ps i have inexplicably decided kirkwall is in florida. i am canadian, and most of these characters are english, but we're just going to suspend our disbelief together, okay? <3

Later that week, Hawke unloads his Fenris-related worries on Anders as they’re leaving work.

 

“I don’t really know him,” says Hawke as he pulls on a hoodie. “I don’t know where he works, or how he met Isabela. He’s very quiet. He reads a lot. He eats _garbage_. There’s suddenly fifteen packages of instant noodles in my pantry. I’m pretty sure his tattoos go all over, if you know what I mean.”

 

“You could ask him,” says Anders. “You could ask him questions. ‘Where are you from? How’s work? How do you know Isabela?’ You could _speak_ with another person, Hawke, rather than just talking _at_ them.”

 

“I know his bank information,” continues Hawke, steadfastly ignoring Anders. He isn’t asking for advice, but Anders insists on giving it anyway. “He’s paid for two months rent and had me write out proper receipts for him. I know that. He gave me his phone number and texted me once. It said ‘This is Fenris.’ Proper capitalization, with a full stop at the end. Who sends text messages like that?”

 

Anders closes his locker and pulls his backpack over his shoulder. “Apparently he does. I need to catch my bus. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll drive you, if you like,” offers Hawke. “We don’t usually both finish at six, did you come on early?”

 

“I swapped with J,” says Anders, hesitating. “Are you certain?”

 

“I don’t mind,” says Hawke. “I’ll drop you home, come on.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Hawke pulls into Publix. Anders frowns out the passenger side window and says, “I don’t live at the grocery store. Did you forget I’m here? Did you forget you’re driving me home?”

 

“No,” says Hawke, finding a perfect spot and killing the engine. “But I’m very hungry, and I’ve remembered I don’t have any food in the house. I’ll only be a minute.”

 

“You are impossible,” huffs Anders. He looks like he’s going to stay put for a moment, but then he unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car.

 

Hawke gets out and locks the car doors. “Take it as an opportunity,” he says. “I’m driving you. Pick up anything you need that’s too heavy to carry on the bus.”

 

“...I suppose you’ve got a point,” admits Anders.

 

“Of course I do,” says Hawke, leading the way into the store and grabbing a cart. “I’m beautiful and perfect and right.”

 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to go grocery shopping hungry?” asks Anders vaguely, following Hawke into the bakery section. He picks up a loaf of bread, examines the best before date, and then tucks it under his arm.

 

“Mm. That sounds like a lesson that never stuck,” says Hawke. “Look, these are on sale.” He shows Anders the container of chocolate chip cookies and then puts them into his cart.

 

“We should go into the produce section,” says Anders, frowning. “Don’t you need some vegetables? Fruit?”

 

“Oh, probably,” murmurs Hawke. “But I’d rather a chocolate croissant.”

 

“This is going to upset me,” says Anders with a sigh. “I’ve seen what you eat during break, I want no part in this.”

 

“Too bad,” says Hawke cheerfully. “You’re stuck with me. Anyway, you’re wrong. I know how to cook. I’ve just explained that I’m not the one filling the pantry with packages of ramen.”

 

Anders makes a face, watching Hawke as they stroll through the bakery aisle. “I’ll believe that when I see you eating anything other than vending machine dinners.”

 

“You know what,” says Hawke, stopping short next to the meat counter.

 

Anders collides with Hawke’s back, grunts, and then says, “What,” in flat, unimpressed voice.

 

“I quite fancy a roast,” says Hawke. “What an excellent idea!”

 

“You,” says Anders, rubbing at his face. “Hawke, the sun’s just come up. Please, be reasonable.”

 

“Chicken’s good for you,” says Hawke, leaning over to pick up a whole chicken. “I make very nice roast, Anders. I’ll bring you some.” The chicken goes in the cart, and they keep going, picking up milk, eggs, and, finally, apples and a big head of broccoli, mostly at Anders’ vocal insistence. Anders shoves a big jug of milk into the cart and slides a 24 pack of club soda on the bottom, shrugging and saying, “What? You told me to get anything heavy,” when Hawke raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“I saw that,” says Hawke when they’re standing in the queue, as he watches Anders slip a Twix onto the conveyor belt with his other groceries.

 

“You’re not my mother,” says Anders defensively. He pointedly slides the plastic divider between his food and Hawke’s. “ _I_ know how to exercise portion control and willpower.”

 

“And I go to the gym four times a week to avoid having to think about that,” says Hawke. “Congratulations, we’re both insufferable.”

 

He ends up loading Anders’s groceries into the car for him and it feels like a victory.

 

oOo

 

In all fairness, he doesn’t wake Fenris with fire or noise or a sibling this time.

 

He gets home at seven am, quietly dresses the chicken, stuffs it with lemon and onion, and pops it into the oven. Then he takes a long, hot shower, finds a pair of clean boxers to wear, and puts on a load of laundry before returning to the kitchen to baste the chicken. After promptly burning himself with hot chicken fluids Hawke remembers to put on an apron to cover his bare torso and then settles down with a mug of tea at the table.

 

There is, during this entire hour of productivity, absolutely no undue noise and practically no fire at all. Hawke conducts himself in thoroughly impressive silence.

 

There is, however, a distinctive smell. The roast has been in the oven for nearly an hour and the rich smell of baking chicken permeates the entire apartment. It draws out Dog, who lies down in front of the oven and whines, and then, eventually, it draws out Fenris.

 

“Oh good lord,” says Hawke when he notices him standing in the kitchen doorway in an over-sized t-shirt and what look like black leggings. “What did I do this time?”

 

Fenris, endearingly rumpled, narrows his eyes. For a moment, he just stares at Hawke, and Hawke stares right back.

 

“Chicken,” says Fenris at length, his voice hoarse with sleep.

 

“I had a craving,” says Hawke defensively. He is a grown man sitting at his kitchen table wearing nothing but his boxers and an electric pink apron and honestly, he doesn’t need this kind of judgement right now. He just went grocery shopping with _Anders_. He’s had enough judgement for the day.

 

Fenris rubs wearily at his face. “You had a craving.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For roast chicken.”

 

“And little potatoes, yes.”

 

“Little potatoes,” echoes Fenris, incredulous.

 

Hawke meets his gaze squarely and shrugs his shoulders. Fenris, amazingly, follows the motion closely with sharp green eyes. Then, when he notices Hawke looking, he flushes and purses his lips, his expression flattening into a scowl.

 

“Sorry,” says Hawke. “You can have some, obviously. While I’m perfectly capable of eating a whole chicken by myself, I probably shouldn’t make a habit out of it.”

 

“I don’t want any chicken,” snaps Fenris. “It’s eight in the morning!”

 

“Perfect time for a roast!” says Hawke, grinning. “Oh, no, better idea! I’ll pack you some for your lunch.”

 

“You don’t need to _feed me_ ,” hisses Fenris. “I’m capable of feeding myself.”

 

“Of course you are,” says Hawke. “I am in no way trying to imply you aren’t. I’m just going to have leftovers.”

 

Fenris makes a low, irritated noise and seems to give up entirely, padding across the kitchen to the coffee machine, where he noisily inserts a clean filter and spoons in coffee grounds.

 

Hawke feels a little bad. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

 

Fenris grunts and closes the lid of the machine, stabbing at the on button.

 

“I’ll, ah. Save any future roast chickens for evening meals only,” he offers.

 

“How delightfully pedestrian of you,” mutters Fenris.

 

“You know, I don’t actually know what you do,” says Hawke, after several prolonged and painful minutes of silence as Fenris tries to will the coffee machine to percolate faster and Dog creates a tiny lake of drool on the floor in front of the oven.

 

“My job, I presume?” says Fenris. He’s leaning against the counter, forehead resting on the edge of the overhead cupboard, his gaze on the coffee machine.

 

“Yes,” says Hawke. “You mentioned it’s nearby, and that you work midshift…”

 

“Ah,” says Fenris. “Yes.” He pauses briefly to clear his throat. “I am a Netflix customer service representative.”

 

Hawke doesn’t mean to laugh, but it happens anyway. He immediately slaps a hand over his mouth to try to stop it, but it just keeps bubbling out.

 

Hunched like a vulture over the coffee maker, Fenris slowly turns his head to fix Hawke with a sour look.

 

“I’m sorry!” sputters Hawke. “Oh my god, wait, you’re _serious_. You’re in customer service? _You_? Customer service?!”

 

Fenris clenches his jaw and Hawke waves a hand at him, mind working desperately to concoct a way to save this conversation. It’s difficult; there’s not a lot of conversation here to save. “I just mean… you’re so…” Hawke flounders. “Angry?”

 

“Thank you,” says Fenris, his voice flat. “It is kind of you to notice.”

 

“But you are telling me you speak to people on the phone and help them solve problems,” says Hawke. “Aren’t you? That’s your job? Helping people?”

 

“Yes and no,” says Fenris, with surprising patience, considering Hawke just laughed in his face. “I am the person people speak to when they have a problem. They do not, however, speak to me on the phone. I log onto the chat client and customers instant message with me.”

 

Almost instantly, Hawke’s world rights itself. “You type at them! Of course. That immediately makes much more sense.”

 

“Yes,” says Fenris, sighing. “I type at them.”

 

“Do you jab angrily at the keys when someone is particularly stupid?”

 

“Yes,” says Fenris. He rubs a hand over his face, lifting one foot off the floor to scratch at the back of his own calf. “I’ve been told I can be...terse.”

 

“You? Terse? I can’t imagine how anyone could think that,” gasps Hawke. “How do you know Varric and Isabela?”

 

Fenris hesitates. “I met Varric through Isabela.”

 

“Mmhm, yes, that’s appropriately vague,” nods Hawke. “Varric rescued me at a laundromat years ago. But I met Isabela at her shop when I was trading in my old Walkman so that I could buy some Lego for Bethany. Have you been to her shop?”

 

“Yes,” says Fenris. “But that’s not how we met.” He shrugs one shoulder and backs away from the cupboard so that he can open it and remove a mug. “We go to the same therapist.”

 

Hawke watches him pour out coffee, body tense, and figures he’s expecting Hawke to ask about it, so Hawke doesn’t. “And then she introduced you to Varric?”

 

The oven timer goes off before Fenris can say anything. For a few minutes, he’s distracted by his coffee while Hawke deals with his roast.

 

“Go away,” Hawke says firmly to Dog when she gets up expectantly from the floor, plumed tail wagging. “No, darling. It’s not for you. Living room. _Living room_.” Nosing at his legs, brown eyes criminally sad, she whines. Hawke sighs. “If you go to the living room, you’ll get a treat.”

 

“Is her name really just… Dog?” asks Fenris curiously. He’s learning on the counter, hand wrapped around his coffee cup, watching Hawke negotiate with his pet.

 

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Hawke, pulling on Dog’s collar. She finally moves out of the way and slinks into the living room, throwing a mournful look over her shoulder. “It took so long to name her that calling her ‘the dog’ just shortened to ‘dog’ and then… it stuck. No other proper name ever had a chance.”

 

“Well,” says Fenris, after a beat, “At least it suits her.”

 

Hawke lets out a delighted laugh. “Did you just make a terrible joke?”

 

“What can I say?” asks Fenris dryly. “You’re a bad influence.”

 

“How often I hear that,” muses Hawke.

 

Hawke does end up packing a lunch for Fenris when he wanders off to use the shower and leaves Hawke alone in the kitchen. He puts a chicken breast and a wing into a Tupperware container with a generous helping of little potatoes and then sticks a label on the top that says “Fenris” before he puts it into the fridge. Then he writes “DON’T FORGET YOUR LUNCH, LOVE G” on the kitchen whiteboard.

 

Making up a plate for himself, Hawke puts away the rest of the roast, cleans up the kitchen, and takes his breakfast to bed with him, where he eats and texts Isabela for two hours before falling asleep while trading innuendos.

 

When he wakes up in the afternoon, the message on the whiteboard has been scrubbed out and replaced with “Unnecessary but thank you, -F” and the Tupperware is gone from the fridge.

 

oOo

 

Fenris probably doesn’t hate him.

 

In fact, Fenris is surprisingly patient with him, despite his general confusion and exasperation with Hawke’s… everything. He speaks to Hawke readily enough when addressed, sits with him on the couch on Hawke’s nights off, and shares the occasional meal with him. Hawke continues to pack him lunches, Bethany drops off breakfast for them both when she’s inclined, and Fenris seems… content.

 

The best thing about the entire situation is that Fenris seems genuinely delighted by Dog. Hawke catches him playing with her on several occasions, tug-of-war or lazy fetch, with Fenris parked on the couch tossing a tennis ball for Dog to retrieve. She sits with her giant head on his knee and he obligingly scratches her ears, and sometimes he asks to take her for walks when she’s particularly restless.

 

One morning, Hawke comes home, eats breakfast, takes a shower, and goes to bed, and then lies there staring at the ceiling for a while, wondering why something feels… off.

 

Then he gets up again and realises he hasn’t seen Dog at all since he came home.

 

When he finally passes Fenris’s bedroom and finds the door ajar, he chances a peek inside and finds Fenris sprawled out asleep on his belly with Dog taking up the entire bottom length of Fenris’s bed.

 

“You traitor,” he whispers, but he backs out and leans against the wall for a moment, grinning at the ceiling.

 

Back in bed, he texts Isabela.

 

 **hawke** : dog’s abandoned me for fenris!!!!

 

 **isabela** : dog’s got good taste

 **isabela** : are u crying

 

 **hawke** : no im charmed

 **hawke** : they’re sleeping together

 

 **isabela** : pics pls

 

 **hawke** : im sorry im not interested in being murdered when fenris finds out ive taken a picture of him while he was sleeping

 

 **isabela** : im so disappointed in u

 

 **hawke** : i know, i’m terrible

 **hawke** : he loves my dog, isabela

 **hawke** : the next step is obviously him falling in love with me

 

 **isabela** : is that all thats on ur list of relationship prerequisites? “must love dogs”?

 

 **hawke** : any dog helps, but MY dog specifically

 

 **isabela** : of course

 

 **hawke** : bethany told him dog’s not allowed on the sofa so sometimes he sits on the floor just so she can lie across his lap

 **hawke** : i didn’t have the heart to tell him the ‘no dog on the sofa’ rule is not particularly well enforced

 

 **isabela** : good lord

 **isabela** : you might as well start printing up wedding invitations

 

 **hawke** : i know!!!!

 

 **isabela** : dog will be your flower girl

 

 **hawke** : im crying a single tear

 

 **isabela** : beautiful

 

 **hawke** : slow morning at the shop?

 

 **isabela** : so so

 **isabela** : i just got in an apron ud love and i put it aside for u

 **isabela** : it says ‘dinner is ready when the smoke alarm goes off’

 

 **hawke** : im so offended

 **hawke** : i love it

 

It goes back and forth like this until Hawke predictably falls asleep mid-conversation.

 

When he wakes up again, the universe has righted itself once more; Dog’s back in his bed, and Hawke can’t find his phone.

 

oOo

 

“Did you forget to email Carver?” Bethany is sitting in the armchair, legs tucked up, eyes fixed on the TV as she navigates Hawke’s party through a dungeon.

 

“Shit,” mumbles Hawke. He turns his face into a couch cushion and peers at Bethany through one eye. “Yes. I did.”

 

“Well, he’s complained to me. Twice. So do something about it,” she orders. Then she frowns. “No wonder you keep dying. This armour is terrible. Don’t you have something better?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Make something else, then. I don’t understand the crafting system at all.”

 

“You’re hopeless,” she mutters. “When’s Aveline getting here?”

 

Hawke pulls his phone out of the couch cushions and checks his texts. “She’s on her way. She just stopped to pick up dessert, apparently.”

 

Fenris appears in Hawke’s peripheral vision, standing next to the edge of the couch and watching Bethany’s progress. Then he thumps a hand against Hawke’s foot and says, “You’re taking up the whole sofa.”

 

“Hello, Fenris!” calls Bethany.

 

“Bethany,” he greets, sitting down on the couch when Hawke has dragged himself into a sitting position with only minimal grumbling.

 

“Garrett, honestly,” she chides. “You’re carrying a dagger with 370 DPS in your inventory and haven’t equipped it. This one is only 260. Do you even check as you pick things up?”

 

“It’s so much work,” groans Hawke. “You get it all how you like it, then pick up new items and have to organise it all _again_. Who has the time?”

 

“Well, here,” says Bethany, handing back the controller. “I killed the giant. And I redid your armour and weapons load-out. You should be fine for a little while. You had two ability points, as well. Don’t tell me you’re too lazy to level up.”

 

“There’s no need, you just said it for me,” replies Hawke.

 

Next to him, Fenris chuckles.

 

“See?” demands Hawke, turning to Bethany. “Fenris thinks I’m funny.”

 

“Fenris has only lived with you for two months,” says Bethany wearily.

 

“Is that all?” asks Fenris mildly. “I could have sworn it was longer.”

 

“Because time just drags on around Garrett?” Bethany asks sweetly.

 

“You’re awfully saucy today, little one.” Hawke hands the controller off to Fenris and gets to his feet. “I’m very proud.”

 

“Thank you,” says Bethany, beaming. “Fenris, have you played?”

 

“No,” says Fenris, staring down at his hands. “Unless you’re interested in losing, Hawke, I suggest you let Bethany continue playing.”

 

“I need to check on the casserole. Just… run around and collect some potion ingredients, or something,” he suggests, waving a hand dismissively. “It’ll be fine.”

 

It is not fine.

 

Hawke is gone for maybe five minutes. He takes the foil off the top of the casserole to let it brown, resets the timer, and comes back to absolute carnage.

 

“Run away!” Bethany is shrieking through her laughter. “Fenris, just run away! Oh god, another bear! Fenris, you’re going to—”

 

“— _Die_ , yes, I did realise!” Fenris retorts hotly. His grip on the controller is white-knuckled as he mashes the basic attack button. Any potential progress is also sabotaged by his lack of familiarity with the camera; he stops whatever he’s doing every time he needs to readjust the angle.

 

In the game, three bears surround his character as Fenris hacks stubbornly away at them with his daggers. The rest of his party is dead.

 

“Use stealth!” calls Bethany. “Use stealth and _run_! Your party will get back up if you get far enough away!”

 

“I’m trying,” mutters Fenris.

 

“Take a potion!” Bethany is vibrating in her seat and clapping, her amused grin huge. “Oh—Fenris! Oh, you’re dead.”

 

“I’m dead,” confirms Fenris, blowing out an aggravated breath as the screen turns black.

 

“ _I’m_ dead,” mourns Hawke. He returns to the couch to flop back down next to Fenris. “You’ve killed me.”

 

“Oh, don’t fuss,” says Bethany. “You left him with it! And you die all the time on your own.”

 

The door bell chimes, signaling Aveline’s arrival. Hawke buzzes her in on the phone, then when she knocks on the door, groans and says, “I’ve just sat down. Someone else get it.”

 

“Oh, fine,” says Bethany. “But only because you’re making dinner.”

 

“Hardly an even trade,” says Hawke. “You’d have to answer the door at _least_ ten more times.”

 

“ _Or_ bring you breakfast three times a week!” Bethany gets up to unlock the door. “Aveline!”

 

“Hello, sweetheart,” says Aveline, stepping into the apartment and pulling Bethany into a hug. “Long time no see. Here, take this, it’s a chocolate tart.”

 

“Ooh,” says Bethany. “We have to keep this from Garrett or he’ll eat the whole thing.”

 

“Excuse you,” scoffs Hawke. “I think I know how to share!”

 

“Hello, Hawke,” says Aveline, coming over to drop a kiss on the top of Hawke’s head.

 

“Hello, Aveline,” he drawls. “You haven’t met Fenris yet. Aveline, this is Fenris. Fenris, this is Aveline. Fenris moved in a couple of months ago. He works for Netflix, scowls really well, and has a mysterious past.”

 

Fenris huffs and accepts Aveline’s proffered hand, shaking it. “It is nice to meet you, Aveline.”

 

“Likewise,” says Aveline easily, sitting down on the couch between Hawke and Fenris. “I’m a bit curious about this ‘mysterious past’ now, though.”

 

“I do not have a mysterious past,” says Fenris archly.

 

“Garrett just doesn’t know every detail of every moment of Fenris’s life yet, so he’s being dramatic,” says Bethany. “Ignore him, Aveline.”

 

“I always do,” says Aveline sweetly. “Bethany, tell me everything. How’s college life treating you?”

 

“It’s wonderful,” sighs Bethany happily. “I’ve made lots of friends! I like my classes and I’m doing really well. I was thinking of joining a club. I’m not sure what, though. Maybe drama? Or the LGBT organization?”

 

“Well, you’ve got plenty of time to figure it out,” says Aveline. “Do you like living in the dorms?”

 

“I don’t like the part where I’m sharing a bathroom with forty other people so much.” Bethany wrinkles her nose. “But I like having my own room.”

 

“You had your own room _here_!” protests Hawke.

 

“You know what I mean,” says Bethany, rolling her eyes. “Aveline, how’s work? And Donnic?”

 

As they continue to catch up, Hawke realises Fenris is restlessly checking his phone, shoulders and jaw tense. Just as he’s about to ask him what’s wrong, the oven timer goes off. Hawke gets to his feet at the same time that Fenris’s phone rings; before Hawke even takes a step, Fenris murmurs, “I’m sorry, excuse me. I must take this,” and disappears down the hall and into his bedroom, door closing behind him.

 

“Is he all right?” asks Bethany, peering after him.

 

“I don’t know,” says Hawke. “I haven’t unlocked his tragic back-story yet.”

 

Aveline rolls her eyes. “He was probably just expecting a call from a family member, or something.”

 

“Garrett, the oven,” points out Bethany.

 

“Yes, right," sighs Hawke. He glances once more down the hall before he returns to the kitchen.

 

oOo

 

Fenris doesn’t come back for nearly an hour.

 

Hawke doesn’t want to knock on his door and interrupt his conversation so he fixes him a plate instead and eats his own dinner in the living room with Aveline and Bethany, watching a Food Network marathon of Chopped.

 

“Don’t talk back to the judge, don’t do it,” mutters Aveline under her breath.

 

“Oh, this is so embarrassing,” says Bethany, practically covering her eyes as she squirms in her seat. “Can you imagine standing there arguing with a judge that, actually, no, they’re _wrong_ about what they’re tasting?”

 

“I still can’t believe he wrapped the whole steak in nori,” says Hawke, disgusted. “I can’t believe it. I’m surprised no one _vomited_.”

 

“Steak and seaweed,” says Bethany. She sounds dazed.

 

“‘I think the salty undertones of the nori really bring out the rich iron of the meat,’” mimics Hawke viciously. “Salty undertones! It’s fucking _seaweed_. It’s an overtone of salt. It’s _brine_. You can’t use it like a tortilla on a slab of meat!”

 

“Thank you, Gordon Ramsay,” says Aveline, leaning over to pat Hawke comfortingly on the hand.

 

“This man owns a restaurant,” mumbles Hawke, sulking. “Would _you_ trust him to make you a steak?”

 

“To be fair,” says Bethany, “It came in the basket. He had to use it somehow. What would you have done with the seaweed?”

 

“Eaten it on its own,” sighs Hawke. “I don’t know. That one, she had a good idea, making it into a sort of sauce. It was a terrible lot of ingredients, though.”

 

“Still,” says Aveline. “Don’t talk back. Don’t wrap steak in seaweed. Don’t try to cook something in twenty minutes that’s going to need at least forty minutes not to kill someone.”

 

“I want seconds,” says Bethany, holding her plate out to Hawke. “And more asparagus, please.”

 

Hawke sighs and takes her plate, getting to his feet. “You’re doing _all_ the dishes.”

 

“I’m your favourite sister,” says Bethany.

 

“You’re my only sister!” Hawke laughs. He leaves them to the tender mercies of Chopped, heading for the casserole dish on the counter in the kitchen. He’s scooping some out for Bethany when Fenris reappears, stalking to the fridge and wrenching it open to grab a can of one his weird green tea energy drinks. Hawke drank one by accident after work one morning and ended up staying awake for an entire twenty four hours. It was not a good experience.

 

“Hey!” says Hawke, giving him a smile. “I made a plate for you, too.”

 

“Thank you,” says Fenris, his face flushing. “You didn’t have to.”

 

“Well, it’s cold, now,” says Hawke, “but it’s just as good out of the microwave, really. Bethany _likes_ it cold, but she’s very odd.”

 

“It’s fine, Hawke,” says Fenris.

 

“Are you all right?” asks Hawke, forking the last of the roasted asparagus onto Bethany’s plate. “Everything okay?”

 

“Fine,” says Fenris shortly. He huffs and pushes his hair out of his eyes, and Hawke would swear his hands are shaking. “I… was just talking to my sister.”

 

Hawke drops the spatula with a clatter, mutters, “fuck” and wipes tuna casserole off his fingers. “I… sorry. You have a sister?”

 

“We’re not close,” says Fenris, glancing at Hawke and then looking away, his green eyes apparently searching out anything other than Hawke to focus on and eventually settling on the alphabet fridge magnets. The last time he was here, Carver arranged them to spell GaRRETT IS AN ARSE and Hawke hasn’t bothered to fix it. To be fair, he _is_ an arse. “We only speak every so often. It’s fine. Thank you for dinner.”

 

“Let me heat it up,” says Hawke. “Here, take this to Bethany. I’ll put yours in the microwave.”

 

Fenris takes Bethany’s plate from Hawke, carrying it out to the living room.

 

Hawke leans against the counter as Fenris’s dinner heats up, scratching speculatively at his beard. A sister. Is she older or younger? Where does she live? Why aren’t they close? Why did Fenris seem so shaken? He had clearly been expecting her call.

 

Questions for the ages, really.

 

Hawke, of course, articulates exactly none of them to Fenris.

 

When the microwave beeps, he opens the door, burns his fingers on the plate, and carries it out to Fenris padded by a generous wad of paper towel. “Careful, it’s hot,” he announces, handing it off to Fenris.

 

“He knows because he’s burned himself,” says Aveline matter-of-factly.

 

“I may not have!” protests Hawke, sitting back down. “I could be speaking from _past_ experience.”

 

“I didn’t specify a time period,” shrugs Aveline.

 

“I assumed the implication was at some point in space and time, you have burned yourself on a plate from the microwave, possibly repeatedly,” murmurs Fenris, and Hawke giggles delightedly.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aveline and Bethany exchange a glance but he stubbornly ignores it.

 

oOo

 

“What’s your sister’s name?” asks Hawke.

 

Aveline left half an hour ago, offering Bethany a ride back to the dorm. Apartment empty, Hawke had begun to clean up, eventually finding Fenris in the kitchen washing all the dishes.

 

Fenris doesn’t turn around to look at him. “Varania.”

 

“That’s a pretty name,” says Hawke. Maybe Anders is right. Maybe he can just… speak to Fenris. That’s how people learn about each other, right? They ask questions, engage in smalltalk. They _bond_ over shared experiences. Fenris has a sister. Hawke has a sister. They have something in common. “Does she live here in the city?”

 

“No,” says Fenris. “Seattle.”

 

“Oh,” says Hawke, raising his eyebrows. “That’s far! Is that where you’re from?”

 

Fenris’s shoulders tense a little, hitching up around his ears as he rinses off the plates and places them one by one on the drying rack. “I am not from Seattle. But I moved here from Seattle, yes.”

 

“To Kirkwall,” says Hawke, trying not to sound like he thinks it’s a terrible decision even though it completely is. “From _Seattle_. Well. Sure. Is she older or younger? I’m trying to imagine what kind of sibling you are and I honestly can’t guess. I would have actually said you were an only child, but that’s obviously not the case. Not that… I’m trying to say anything about you as a person!”

 

There is a brief pause, and then Fenris says, “Varania is my older sister.” He fills the casserole dish with soap and water and turns off the tap to let it soak, wiping his hands on a towel.

 

“You’re a little brother!” says Hawke, delighted. “You share ranks with Carver, which, well…” He clears his throat. “You can’t win them all. No, no, I’m joking.”

 

Fenris turns around, making brief eye contact before looking away, leaning his hip against the counter. He looks annoyed. Hawke is still having trouble telling when it’s annoyance he’s caused versus general annoyance with the world at large. “Carver is… Bethany’s twin?”

 

“Born three minutes ahead of her, with all the entitlement of a proper older sibling and none of the responsibility,” says Hawke. “He’s decided to go off and join the military. Only I’ve stipulated he must go to college, first, so he found a school where you… do it all at once. I don’t know. He seems happy. I’ve learned that it’s best to let Carver make decisions without any input from me.”

 

“And Bethany has stayed here,” says Fenris. “Near you.”

 

“She has,” says Hawke quietly. “Is it because she’s so far? That you don’t talk much?”

 

“You mean Varania,” says Fenris slowly, after a confused pause, and his expression suddenly closes off again, guarded. “We were… not on good terms, even before I left. She wants me to be someone I cannot be. We struggle to get along.”

 

“But… she’s your sister,” says Hawke, uncomprehending.

 

There’s a flash of something, on Fenris’s face, and Hawke knows immediately that he’s stepped in it. “You just said you don’t get along with Carver. You’ve been avoiding emailing him.”

 

“Oh, that’s just…” Hawke waves a hand dismissively. “Posturing. He’s my little brother. Of course we get along. In… our own way. How often do you talk to Varania?”

 

“Hawke...” says Fenris warningly. “Leave it alone.”

 

“Sorry! I just… she’s your family,” insists Hawke, stubborn. He can feel himself crossing the line, reads the tension and anger in Fenris’s body perfectly well and still barges onward, charting an intercept course with the argument that’s brewing, red alert klaxon blaring in his head all the while. “I can’t even imagine what could possibly come between me and Bethany to make us grow apart.”

 

“That’s right,” says Fenris coldly. “You can’t imagine it. You haven’t a bloody clue. Not everyone is lucky enough to be blessed with such a close relationship to their sister, Hawke! I don’t wish to discuss this further. Or, actually, ever again. It’s not your business!”

 

“Fenris,” says Hawke, dismayed. “Fenris, I—”

 

“Good _night_ , Hawke,” interrupts Fenris, throwing down the tea towel and storming out of the kitchen.

 

A moment later, his bedroom door slams and Hawke flinches.

 

“Well,” he mumbles. “That wasn’t good.”

 

oOo

 

“What’s wrong with you?” asks Anders, flicking Hawke in the forehead. “You look awful.”

 

“Thank you,” says Hawke, rubbing at his forehead and scowling. “I make myself beautiful each evening in anticipation of seeing _your_ pointy little face.”

 

Anders rolls his eyes. “At least you showered. Have you been sleeping?”

 

“Excessively,” mumbles Hawke. In fact, Hawke’s slept over twenty hours over the past two days, waking up exhausted and sandy-eyed each evening like he hasn’t actually slept at all. He rubs at the bridge of his nose and shrugs one shoulder. “Feels like allergies. I’ve got a pressure headache that just won’t die and it’s like someone’s been stuffing my skull with cotton. My head feels enormous. Does it look enormous?”

 

“No more than usual,” says Anders, leaning in and peering at his face. “You’re a bit pale, I suppose.” He lifts his hand. “Shall I check your temperature?”

 

“No thank you, mother,” says Hawke dryly. “I don’t feel feverish.”

 

“Well, all right,” says Anders. He shrugs. “You should keep hydrated, drink some water. Do you have Benadryl or something?”

 

“Probably,” says Hawke. “Stop fussing, Anders. It’s just a headache.”

 

“Excuse me for giving a shit,” says Anders. “What’s crawled up your arse and died, anyway? You’ve been cranky for days. More roommate problems?”

 

“I’ll have you know that, for the record, I did what you said,” says Hawke, closing his locker and turning around to lean against it. “I engaged him in conversation. I asked him about his job and his family. And then I put my foot in my mouth so badly he actually left the room to get away from me and now we haven’t spoken in three days.”

 

Anders cocks his head, eyebrow quirked. “Okay, but the problem wasn’t the act of speaking to him, Hawke. It was what you _said_. You can’t blame this on me.”

 

“I can _try_ ,” snaps Hawke. He swears under his breath and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the steady throb of his skull.

 

“Aww,” coos Anders. “Poor baby. Come on. You’ll be late. Go clock in.”

 

Work is… tolerable. Mostly.

 

Well, it’s fine until he passes out.

 

Hawke drifts through the first half of his shift in an automaton haze; it’s a slow night, and he doesn’t have to answer many calls, but reality washes over him like he’s twice removed from the universe, his head tender and his sinuses tight and swollen. Moving his limbs with any semblance of coordination is a lot like Hawke imagines swimming through Jello would feel.

 

The dizziness hits around midnight and he asks to go on break early, eating a protein bar and lying down on the couch to see if his head will clear.

 

Hawke startles awake fifteen minutes later, heart pounding, confused, and sits up so quickly that solid ground melts away and his vision only greys back into technicolour when he’s sitting on the floor with his head between his knees, panting out shallow breaths. His ears are crackling and he’s broken out in a cold, clammy sweat.

 

“Head rush,” he mumbles, forcing himself stubbornly back up to his feet.

 

It’s a bad idea. It’s a monumentally bad idea, and Hawke should know better.

 

Staggering upright so abruptly only sets off a fresh wave of nauseated dizziness; his head starts spinning, fuzzy grey static creeping into the edges of his vision. Something hot and wet bursts in his nose, trickling down his upper lip, and when Hawke brings his fingers up to wipe it away, he realises it’s blood.

 

“Shit,” says Hawke. His own voice sounds faint and distant, like he’s hearing the echo from the other end of a long tunnel.

 

The grey static goes black and Hawke loses track of the floor entirely until it comes up to meet him.

 

He’s not entirely sure what happens after that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which fenris is a very, very good roommate (like, seriously, above and beyond)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter **warning** for : vomiting/emetophobia

When he opens his eyes next, it takes Hawke maybe ten seconds of slow, confused blinking and a game of _guess those ceiling tiles_ to realise he’s probably in the hospital. His own bedroom ceiling has glow in the dark dinosaurs stuck to it, and the break room ceiling is a faint puke green, so process of elimination leads him to sterile white hospital tiles.

 

He recognises the itch of an IV stuck in the back of his hand, and there’s a faint, persistent heart monitor beep coming from a machine to his right.

 

There is also, he realises with growing horror, a chair on his left-hand side, and in that chair, a person.

 

That person is Fenris.

 

“Oh no,” whispers Hawke.

 

Fenris seems to be asleep. He doesn’t look remotely comfortable. He’s drawn his knees up in the chair to rest his face against them, and Hawke takes in his scrunched up eyebrows and shaggy bedhead with genuine distress. In the apparent confusion before Fenris left the house, he took Hawke’s jacket from the closet by the front door, so he’s wearing that over his pyjamas. It is too big on him.

 

“Oh _no_ ,” repeats Hawke. He covers his face with his hands, briefly trapped by the IV line, and continues to chant “no no no,” under his breath.

 

With a sudden horrible clarity, he remembers scrawling Fenris’s name into the ‘emergency contact’ portion of his employee paperwork when HR asked him to update it a couple of weeks ago. It seemed more reasonable than keeping Bethany, who no longer lives with him and is squeamish about medical issues, as his contact. It seemed doubly more reasonable than asking Brandon, who doesn’t want that kind of responsibility in his life when they aren’t even dating. He just thought… Fenris lives with him, so it wasn’t a big deal. He planned to ask him about it later. It wasn’t like Hawke was going to _need_ it.

 

Only here he is, giving serious thought to wrapping the IV line around his throat and quietly choking himself with it rather than facing Fenris and explaining his utter lack of foresight and rational thought.

 

He can still do it. He can escape this. He will leave Kirkwall, and change his name, and Fenris will never—

 

“Hawke.”

 

 _Shit_.

 

Hawke reluctantly turns his head, shifting his gaze from miserable contemplation of the ceiling to miserable contemplation of Fenris.

 

“I must still be dreaming,” says Hawke. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

 

Fenris scowls, lifting a hand to scrub through the mess of his hair. He unpacks himself carefully from the chair, lowering his feet to the floor, and Hawke realises he’s wearing Hawke’s pyjamas as well as his coat. “It was dark,” says Fenris hoarsely. “I picked up whatever was on the floor in the living room. As it turns out, it was all _your_ clothing.”

 

“I know, I’m terrible,” says Hawke, sighing.

 

Fenris grunts. He slides his phone out of his pocket to check the time, making a face. “How are you feeling?” he asks, rather charitably.

 

“Pretty good, actually,” says Hawke. He plucks at the IV line. “I imagine it has something to do with the fluids I’m currently receiving.”

 

“Marvelous,” huffs Fenris. His nose wrinkles and he rubs tiredly at his face again, adorably disgruntled. It shouldn’t be so cute. Hawke shouldn’t be so into seeing Fenris flustered and irritable. “Perhaps now we can discuss what possessed you to select me as your emergency contact. Why would you have your work call me when they could contact, say, _Bethany_?”

 

“Ah,” says Hawke, laughing nervously. He tries to sit up and his head spins, so he slumps back down until the black splotches fade from his vision. No sharp movements. Right. Horizontal only. “Well. That. I… I meant to ask. I honestly didn’t think there would be any need for it, but they were updating my paperwork, and it just seemed… logical.”

 

Fenris stares at him. “Logical,” he echoes. “How enlightening. Removing your sister as your emergency contact to use your roommate instead. The roommate you’ve known for two months.”

 

“Bethany made sense when we lived together,” protests Hawke weakly. “But she’s across town, now, and I work nights… I didn’t want to worry her, or disrupt her schedule.”

 

“But disrupting _mine_ is just fine,” says Fenris flatly.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” says Hawke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who to ask, so I put your name in until I could think of someone else.”

 

“What about your _boyfriend_?” hisses Fenris, with surprising venom.

 

Hawke blinks. “What boyfriend? Oh. Brandon. No, that’s. No.”

 

Fenris lets out a dramatic, shuddering sigh. “You could have at least had the courtesy to inform me of my unexpected new responsibility.”

 

“Sorry,” mumbles Hawke. “I just thought… we’re at the same address. You’re home while I’m at work—”

 

“ _Sleeping_ ,” interjects Fenris.

 

“Sorry,” Hawke whispers.

 

There’s a long, awkward silence. Finally, Fenris shifts in the chair and some of the tension goes out of his shoulders. “I didn’t even know what to do. They didn’t tell me anything over the phone, I had to call a taxi… What if it had been more serious? Am I meant to decide your medical care now? Hawke…” Fenris shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You must think things through more carefully. You cannot possibly trust me with something like this. You don’t even _know_ me.”

 

Hawke lies there, mortified, and says nothing. Three days of frosty silence, and now this. He waits patiently for Fenris to announce he’s moving out. It’s inevitable, surely.

 

“The doctor said that you have a concussion,” says Fenris. “You hit your head on the floor when you passed out. You’re so stupidly tall that falling from your own height is enough to give you a concussion.”

 

“That’s… quite funny, actually,” says Hawke. No wonder his skull is throbbing again. It didn’t quite feel like the same brand of headache he remembered from earlier in the evening. He feels around for a lump and finds a swollen goose egg above his temple and winces.

 

“You would think that’s funny,” mutters Fenris. “You are dehydrated. Your sinuses are filled with fluid. You have a mild fever.”

 

“So it’s just an infection,” says Hawke. “I’m coming down with an infection. I’m sorry, Fenris. This is so stupid.”

 

“It is,” agrees Fenris. “It… ugh.” He sighs. “Do not apologise. I am… relieved it’s not anything more serious.”

 

“I have something else to apologise for, though,” says Hawke. “I shouldn’t have been so nosy and presumptuous. I’m sorry that I upset you the other day. You’re right. I don’t know anything about it.”

 

Fenris is, once again, silent.

 

Hawke begins to count the little tiny holes in the ceiling tiles. He reaches 56 before Fenris says, “I accept your apology. Apologies. All of them.”

 

“Oh,” says Hawke. “Well. Thank you. I am sorry.” The more awake he gets, the worse he feels. As the anxiety fades and reliefs cools his veins, Hawke realises the flip-flop of his stomach isn’t entirely Fenris-related. There’s a buzzing noise between his ears and an ache has settled firmly in his throat. He swallows thickly and imagines the infection brewing malevolently in his sinuses and spreading down the back of his throat.

 

“It’s fine, Hawke,” says Fenris, slouching down in the plastic hospital chair. “Your understanding of family is… different than mine.”

 

It’s a brief, desperate struggle to quash the desire to ask Fenris why. Instead, he says, “I’ll remember that. I promise.”

 

oOo

 

After a series of tests and bacterial cultures, the hospital finally discharges Hawke just after seven in the morning, armed with a prescription for a course of antibiotics, strict orders for bed rest, and—when Hawke protests he has to go to work—a sick note.

 

Fenris ends up staying all night.

 

Even after he gets kicked out of the room by the nurse and Hawke tries to tell him it’s fine if he goes home, that Hawke will get a taxi when he can leave, Fenris just goes to the waiting room and, well, waits for him.

 

Hawke gets dressed under the watchful eye of a nurse, pulling on his wrinkled, blood-stained scrubs and slipping his phone and wallet into his pockets when they’re returned to him.

 

Paperwork filled out and prescription in hand, he finds Fenris sleeping across four chairs in the lobby, head pillowed on Hawke’s folded up jacket.

 

Hawke’s only human. He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. Then, before he can feel like too much of a creeper, he leans down and gently shakes Fenris by the shoulder.

 

“Hawke,” mumbles Fenris, jerking awake and knuckling at his eyes.

 

“Hey,” says Hawke. “You really didn’t have to wait for me.”

 

“How do you feel?” asks Fenris, ignoring Hawke’s comment as he sits up and smoothes the wrinkles out of the jacket.

 

“Awful,” admits Hawke. He’s swaying on his feet a little already, dizzier and more lightheaded with each passing minute. His return to vertical mobility isn’t going well. “But I’m going to feel even worse in a few hours. I’ve got a prescription for antibiotics but I’d rather go home for a sleep, first. The pharmacy can wait.”

 

“I’ll take you,” says Fenris, getting to his feet and absently putting Hawke’s jacket back on. It hangs down to mid-thigh on him and he has to push the sleeves up to his elbows.

 

“My car…” Hawke groans and rubs his face. “It’s still at work.”

 

Fenris hesitates. “Do you want to take a taxi there to pick it up?”

 

“I don’t want to, but we should,” sighs Hawke. “I don’t want to leave it there. Last time someone keyed the door.”

 

Fenris rolls his eyes, but pulls out his phone and calls a taxi. In the meantime, Hawke has a short but furious argument with the lurking attendant, who’s adamant Hawke has to be wheeled out of the hospital, and Hawke’s honestly too tired and nebulously dizzy to really do anything but give in.

 

Hawke moves from wheelchair to bench, thanks the glowering attendant, hastily apologises for being difficult, and sits with Fenris to wait until the taxi arrives.

 

Finally outside the hospital, Fenris visibly relaxes.

 

Hawke, on the other hand, props his elbows on his thighs and cradles his head in his hands, imagining the sound all the mucus pooling in his sinuses is probably making. Wind blowing through the trees? Or water moving through pipes, maybe. Or sewage. Toxic waste. Hawke blinks slowly and lets his eyes lose focus as he stares at the ground.  

 

“How’s your head?” asks Fenris.

 

“Hurts,” mumbles Hawke. “The doctor said I need sleep.”

 

“Wise,” agrees Fenris.

 

By the time the taxi shows up, takes them back to the care home, and deposits them in the parking lot, Hawke can barely keep himself standing upright. Fenris helps him into the passenger seat of the car and says, “Do up your seat belt.”

 

Near unconsciousness, Hawke ignores him, rests his head on the window, and closes his eyes.

 

When Fenris wakes him up in the parking garage of the apartment, Hawke’s wearing his seat belt, and Fenris pointedly looks away as Hawke fumbles to get it undone.

 

oOo

 

“Thank you,” says Hawke, when they’re safely upstairs. “You’ve really gone above and beyond. I’m sorry I ruined your night. Again.”

 

Fenris’s shoulders hitch in a shrug and he breaks eye contact; it’s a familiar movement, Fenris noticeably reluctant to maintain eye contact for anything longer than scant moments. “You’re welcome. Do you need anything?”

 

“Probably,” says Hawke, waving his hand dismissively. He sits on the couch to take off his shoes and is immediately uncertain whether he’ll ever be able to get up again. “I’ll go to the pharmacy later, get my prescription filled and pick up Gatorade and crackers and… whatever. Don’t worry. I’ll feel better after a few hours rest.”

 

Fenris drops Hawke’s car keys into the bowl by the door and hangs up his jacket. “Go get some sleep, Hawke.”

 

Hawke nods, head drooping, and very determinedly doesn’t get up.

 

“Hawke.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Hawke slowly lowers his body onto the couch, pulling one of the cushions under his head and another into his arms to hug against his chest. He pulls his legs up and closes his eyes.

 

He’s only half-aware of Fenris draping the blanket over him before he falls asleep.

 

oOo

 

Hours, days, perhaps _weeks_ later, Hawke wakes up, and he doesn’t feel any better at all. In the disoriented confusion of post-nap hell, he gropes around for an appropriate description of the state of his body and announces, “I feel like I’ve been flushed down the toilet.”

 

Then Fenris says, “How pleasant,” and scares the absolute _shit_ out of him.

 

“Oh my god,” says Hawke weakly, swallowing back down the remnants of the shrill sound that just came out of his mouth. He blinks, the world wobbling dangerously around him, and squints to focus on Fenris, smudges of white hair and brown skin in the aura of his vision. “You’re not at work?”

 

“I called in sick,” says Fenris, his face resolving slowly into a concerned frown. He presses the back of his hand to Hawke’s forehead and makes a _hmmm_ noise under his breath. “How do you feel?”

 

Hawke groans. “I just said—”

 

“Details, Hawke,” interrupts Fenris. “Not a disgusting simile.”

 

With an experimental sniff, Hawke quickly determines he can’t breathe through his nose. “So much fluid,” whimpers Hawke. “How did it all get in there so quickly? I’m disgusting. I feel disgusting. My throat hurts, I can’t breathe, my head aches, and I’m _full of mucus_.”

 

Fenris delicately wrinkles his nose. “You feel warm. Tell me what you need from the store.”

 

“A new head,” sniffles Hawke.

 

Fenris pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t say anything; just waits.

 

“Gatorade, please,” says Hawke in a small voice. “Tissues, crackers, and vitamin C. If you go to the Walgreens down the street, you can put my prescription in for me. I’m in the system.” He’s still in his crumpled scrubs from work, desperately in need of a shower and fresh pyjamas, but he does find his wallet in his pocket as he pats himself down. Pulling out a wad of cash, he tries to count it out, fails handily, and gives it all to Fenris. “Just bring back the rest. Or spend it, I honestly don’t care. I trust you.”

 

Fenris purses his lips and stares at the cash. “Hawke…”

 

“Too tired to argue,” says Hawke, groaning and lying back on the couch. He closes his eyes. “Going back to sleep. Thank you for doing this.”

 

Fenris heaves a sigh. There is silence, followed by various leaving-the-house noises, until finally the door opens and closes and Fenris is gone.

 

Hawke doesn’t actually manage to go back to sleep.

 

Now that he’s conscious, he’s uncomfortably aware of how his entire cranium is slowly clogging up with fluid and mucus. He can’t breathe and trying to blow his nose is useless; the pressure in his sinuses just builds and his ears go fuzzy and muffled. Blinking up at the ceiling, Hawke realises he’s still got his contacts in from work the night before and his eyes are itchy and sore. He wishes he’d told Fenris to buy eye drops.

 

He rolls onto his side, whining sadly at his own misfortune, and Dog appears in the living room to snuffle at him, her wet nose travelling all over his body before she gets bored by his lack of response and curls up on the floor.

 

Unable to reach the remote to turn on the TV, he just stares at the blank screen, his eyes watering ceaselessly. Hawke is the creature from the black lagoon. He is slime. In just six hours, he has become the bearer of plagues.

 

Fenris is probably never coming back. Fenris has skipped town and moved across the country to escape Hawke’s… everything.

 

If Hawke thinks too hard about Fenris his head starts to hurt; Fenris came to the hospital and then stayed until Hawke was released. He waited for him and drove him home, then called into his own work to be able to keep an eye on Hawke. He’s out, at the store, taking care of all the things Hawke can’t do on his own.

 

Hawke likes him _so much_.

 

Keys rattling in the door signal Fenris’s return.

 

He’s carrying two plastic bags which he sets on the floor before shutting and locking the door behind him. Hawke watches him take off his shoes and jacket, fussing with his hair in the hall mirror. Then he gathers up the bags and carries them in, catching Hawke’s eye as he approaches the couch.

 

“You’re awake,” he observes, dumping everything on the coffee table.

 

“It’s quite unfortunate, yes,” says Hawke. “Now that you’re back, I think I’m going to try to take a shower, actually.”

 

“Have something to drink first,” says Fenris, pulling a bottle of Gatorade out of one of the bags. It’s blue.

 

“My favourite,” says Hawke, grinning.

 

oOo

 

Hawke drinks the entire bottle of Gatorade, eats a sleeve of soda crackers, and then lies motionless for a while to let Dog lick up all the crumbs. When he sits up, it is to minimal dizziness. He is filled with confidence about his idea to take a shower.

 

“I’m going to leave the door open,” he announces to Fenris. “If I’m not out in fifteen minutes, I probably fell over and died and you should come check on me.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Fenris, the corners of his mouth twitching. He picks up the empty bottle of Gatorade and lobs it across the room, bouncing it off the wall and into the recycling bin. Hawke is quietly impressed.

 

Pushing himself up off the couch, Hawke leans on furniture and walls to make his way into the bathroom. Fenris trails after him, observes Hawke successfully maintain his balance on two feet, and then wanders away, apparently satisfied he’s not currently in danger of passing out again.

 

Closing the door halfway, Hawke strips and takes out his contacts, then turns on the water and chooses a temperature just shy of lukewarm, before climbing in and settling his trembling, newborn fawn limbs on the floor of the tub.

 

It’s the saddest shower Hawke’s ever taken.

 

He’s restricted to whatever supplies are within arm’s length, so he lathers his hair with a bar of soap and then half-heartedly scrubs at himself with his hands while staring mournfully at the washcloth hanging just out of reach. When it comes time to rinse his hair, his arms are too tired so he ducks his head down under the spray and lets his hair wash itself.

 

It’s a relief to feel clean, though, as he climbs unsteadily out of the tub and wraps himself in a towel.

 

He pitches his scrubs into the hamper, puts on fresh pyjamas, and spends five minutes unsuccessfully blowing his nose. Red-nosed and miserable, he goes on a hunt for his glasses, which he can’t remember seeing at all today. He eventually finds them _in_ his bed, under the second pillow and miraculously undamaged, and slides them onto his face.

 

When he returns to the living room in search of the pharmacy purchases, Fenris appears from the kitchen holding a large, steaming mug.

 

“You’re alive,” he says. “Your self-preservation skills are stronger than I thought.”

 

“Ha ha,” mumbles Hawke. “Is that—”

 

“Tea,” says Fenris, offering it to Hawke. “With honey and lemon.”

 

Hawke blinks and takes the mug. “I… thank you.”

 

Fenris flushes and shrugs one shoulder. “It’s just tea, Hawke.”

 

“You made it for me with your own two hands,” croons Hawke, carrying the mug over to the couch and sitting down with it cradled between his palms, leeching up the warmth. “You slaved over a hot stove….”

 

“Kettle,” corrects Fenris. “You have an electric kettle.”

 

“Steeping the tea bag, squeezing the fresh lemon…” Hawke takes a cautious sip of tea and sighs happily.

 

“I didn’t squeeze the lemon,” says Fenris patiently. “You have pre-squeezed juice in the fridge.”

 

“Must’ve taken ages,” continues Hawke, ignoring him. “Finding a hive of bees…”

 

“Mmm,” hums Fenris, noncommittal. Surprisingly, he joins Hawke on the couch, picking up the remote and curling up in the corner as he turns on the TV. “My beekeeping hobby finally paid off, today. What luck.”

 

Hawke laughs. The tea is nice, but it’s made his nose start to run, so he puts down the mug on the coffee table and looks around for the tissues Fenris bought.

 

Fenris watches him struggle for a few moments before picking up the plastic Walgreens bag off the floor and silently handing it over.

 

“I’m honestly not sure what I’d do without you,” says Hawke, fishing out the tissues gratefully.

 

“Drown in your own mucus,” says Fenris.

 

“That’s vile,” groans Hawke. “But sadly true.”

 

Fenris smiles and turns his attention to the TV. “Drink your tea, Hawke.”

 

“Yes, dear,” sighs Hawke.

 

oOo

 

When Hawke was very little, before Bethany and Carver were born, he remembers being horribly ill with the flu. Fever, chills, vomiting, the whole wretched shebang, got him off school for an entire week, but it wasn’t the fun kind of illness, where you could cuddle up and watch cartoons and drink apple juice. There were vivid dreams that edged into hallucination territory, waking him up in the night, and his mother and father bundled him into their own bed, up most of the night trying to keep his fever manageable with wet washcloths as he shivered and cried and clung to his father’s waist.

 

He remembers his mother’s fingers stroking his hair, her hand cool against his hot forehead. They told him stories between them; tired, meandering fairy tales that had no discernable beginning, middle, or end, but all starred him on some sort of ridiculous adventure. Climbing mountains, exploring the antarctic, slaying dragons….

 

His distracted, sleepy memories blend and change into heartsick nostalgia-laced dreams, a jumbled mess of his father’s voice, deep and soothing, as he carried Hawke in his arms to bed, and his mother’s gentle laugh, tinged with worry, as they tucked him in.

 

When Hawke wakes up, the details slipping away like tendrils of smoke, there are tears drying on his cheeks.

 

In the confusion that follows as the fog clears from his brain, Hawke struggles to grasp where he is. The room is dark, lit only by the flickering of the TV, and Hawke is curled on his side on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, head pillowed against someone’s thigh.

 

Very slowly, he becomes aware that there is also a hand on his head, threading gently through his hair.

 

Hawke almost stops breathing when he realises what’s happening.

 

He remembers who he is, where he is, what’s happening in his utter shambles of a life and—

 

It’s Fenris. Fenris is still sitting next to him on the couch, and Hawke has somehow tipped over in his sleep, curled up with his head in Fenris’s lap, and Fenris is….

 

Fenris is absently running his fingers through Hawke’s hair in a soothing rhythm that honestly almost makes Hawke cry again.

 

It’s just so _nice_.

 

The weight of Fenris’s arm around Hawke’s shoulder, the lazy pull of his fingers through Hawke’s damp hair, the occasional pause to check Hawke’s temperature….

 

The easy intimacy forms as a lump in his throat and Hawke is careful to keep perfectly still, breathing shallow and steady, so that he doesn’t clue Fenris in to the fact that he’s now awake. He’s sure this will stop completely if he moves.

 

Hawke is very willing to stay here, motionless, forever, if Fenris continues to pet him.

 

Judging by the blurred shapes wearing white Hawke can see on the television, Fenris is once again watching the Food Network. Hawke doesn’t think either of them has changed the channel in days but he can’t actually make out what’s happening in detail because Fenris must have taken his glasses off him when he fell asleep.

 

“Kumquat,” mutters Fenris suddenly, startling Hawke enough to jump; the illusion of sleep crumbles and Fenris’s hand stills in Hawke’s hair.

 

Hawke clears his throat and says, “It’s a little tiny fruit.”

 

Fenris doesn’t immediately reply. He seems to be waiting for Hawke to pull away, perhaps. To sit up and shake off his hand, but Hawke stays cuddled down against Fenris’s hip under the blanket draped over him, and finally Fenris says, “Is it sweet?”

 

“Not really,” replies Hawke. “It’s a citrus. Quite tart. Very...kumquat-y.”

 

Fenris hums, filtering his fingers slowly and carefully through Hawke’s hair.

 

“Were you dreaming?” asks Fenris mildly, and it’s sudden enough and not on the topic of kumquats that Hawke is momentarily speechless.

 

“Yes,” he says, when he can remember how to form words. He swallows against a dry, scratchy throat. He needs to blow his nose and start taking his antibiotics but he also wants to stay here forever, in this moment, where Fenris is content to pet his hair and talk to him openly.

 

“It didn’t seem like a good dream.”

 

“I could lie and claim I was dreaming of hugging puppies and eating endless ice creams and I was just so overwhelmed by it. But no,” admits Hawke. “It really wasn’t. Bit of a fever dream. I don’t… feel so great. Definitely not up for any dancing, for example.”

 

“You should get to bed,” says Fenris. “And save the dancing for later.”

 

Hawke groans. “That involves getting up. Terrible idea. Vetoed. I’m going to live here, on the sofa, for the rest of my sad, directionless life.”

 

“You’re very dramatic,” observes Fenris.

 

“I get that from my father,” says Hawke. “You could never get a straight answer out of him. Plenty of bad jokes or puns, though.”

 

There is a long, careful pause before Fenris next speaks. “Is he…?”

 

“Dead,” says Hawke. “Yes. He passed away when I was in high school. The twins were young. It was…” Hawke huffs. “Well, it was awful. I’m not sure what else it could have been, really. Awful. I miss him. Sometimes I worry I’m forgetting everything about him….”

 

Fenris has gone very still next to him and Hawke clears his throat and forces out a laugh. “You’re right, I should get to bed. I’m rambling. Sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to apologise,” says Fenris, his voice tight. “I asked.”

 

“I know,” says Hawke, actually making an effort to sit up. His head immediately starts swimming, a low-grade ache settling behind his eyes. Sinus headache. Hawke’s entire life belongs in the trash. “You didn’t ask for… the rest.”

 

“I’m sorry about your father,” says Fenris.

 

“It was nearly fifteen years ago,” says Hawke reassuringly. “I’ll just go to bed, and sleep off this maudlin nostalgia, and…”

 

“I have something I should tell you,” blurts Fenris. He hasn’t moved from his spot, and now that Hawke has shifted, his hands rest loosely on his thighs, fingers curling reflexively.

 

“Sure,” says Hawke, slumping against the arm of the couch. “You can tell me a—”

 

“Hawke, your nose is bleeding,” interrupts Fenris.

 

“Shit, of course it is,” says Hawke, reaching up to pinch the bridge just as he feels the wet rush of liquid. “Where are those tissues?”

 

“Here,” says Fenris, grabbing the box off the coffee table.

 

It isn’t until later, mess cleaned up, hands washed, Hawke finally tucked into his own bed, that he realises he didn’t find out what Fenris wanted to tell him.

 

He resolves, sleepily, to ask him tomorrow.

 

oOo

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Hawke, when he opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded by two glowering redheads and an equally surly baby sister.

 

At least, that’s what he tries to say. He thinks the sentence, forms the words with his lips, and then utterly fails to create the appropriate sounds with his mouth. All that comes out is a faint, hissing whisper.

 

“Oh good lord,” says Aveline. “Hawke?”

 

Hawke clears his throat and tries again. This time he produces a squeaky echo of vocalization before it dwindles into nothingness. Panicked, heat creeping into his cheeks, Hawke coughs into his fist to try and clear his throat. His next attempt at speech is even more pathetic.

 

“He’s lost his voice,” says Bran, raising his eyebrows. “There is absolutely no reason he’d be silent by choice right now.”

 

Hawke scowls and purses his lips.  

 

“Garrett, I can’t believe you didn’t even text me!” says Bethany. “I had to hear from Fenris that you were in hospital. In _hospital_! Then I texted Anders and _he_ said they put you in the ambulance!”

 

There’s no point attempting to diffuse Bethany’s anxiety with anything other than rightfully-deserved apology. Hawke makes an appropriately contrite face, raising his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry,” he mouths.

 

This is going to very old, very quickly.

 

Bethany sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, grabbing a box of tissues and holding it out to Hawke. “Wipe your nose.”

 

Hawke obediently takes a tissue and carefully wipes his drippy nose; it’s only been a day and his nostrils are already dry and burning from repeated applications of Kleenex. He needs to find some Vaseline before just the idea of blowing his nose makes him want to cry.

 

“You look _awful_ ,” comments Bran helpfully. “You’ve aged ten years since the last time I saw you, it’s really quite amazing. Now your face matches the grey in your hair.”

 

“Get off my dick, Brandon!” whispers Hawke viciously.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” laughs Bran. “I’ve never been _on_ your dick.”

 

It’s a lie. He’s being slandered and can’t even properly defend himself!

 

“Please,” groans Bethany, covering her face with her hands. “Brandon, _behave_. Garrett, stop trying to talk, you’ll only make it worse.”

 

It’s not the first time Hawke’s heard that, to be honest, though this is the first time he’s ever lost his voice. He leans back in his blanket nest and points sullenly at Bran, narrowing his eyes.

 

“What’s that mean?” asks Bran, his smile only growing. Of _course_ he’s enjoying this. “What are you trying to tell me? Shall I fetch you a pad of paper so you can write messages for us?”

 

“Don’t tease, Brandon,” chides Aveline mildly. “He’s clearly suffering enough.”

 

Hawke lifts his chin and smirks triumphantly at Bran, who rolls his eyes.

 

“I brought you soup,” says Bethany, another shining beacon of hope and light. “It’s in the fridge, you can heat it up when you’re hungry.” She scrunches her eyebrows, leaning forward to press her palm against his forehead.

 

“Use the back of your hand,” whispers Hawke.

 

Bethany makes a face at him. “You _hush_. Possibly forever. Anyway, I’ve brought you soup, Aveline drove me because I didn’t want to carry soup on the bus, and Brandon was worried—”

 

“I was not,” says Bran. “I hadn’t heard from you in a couple of days, which is rather abnormal because usually you can’t refrain from a booty call at _least_ once a—”

 

“Oh _GOD_ ,” cries Bethany. “I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done to deserve this!”

 

“Accuse me of worrying about _Hawke_ ,” says Bran. “What an appalling assertion, darling Bethany. Please disabuse yourself of the notion that I care about your brother as anything other than a convenient—”

 

“And we’re stopping right there,” says Aveline firmly. “Brandon is, as always, full of shit, and we caught him putting a casserole in the fridge for you.”

 

“Sabotage,” mutters Bran.

 

Hawke smirks.

 

“It’s sweet,” says Bethany. “...Kind of.”

 

“Ugh,” groans Bran, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Well, that’s my good deed for the year, then. Text me when you’re not contagious, Garrett.”

 

“You can really pick them, Hawke,” says Aveline wearily, after Bran has let himself out. “I’ve never met someone so devoted to the pretense of casual disdain. He’s not very good at pretending.”

 

Hawke shrugs expansively. _He_ was never particularly good at charades either.

 

“All right, well, we should let you get some rest,” says Aveline. “Been drinking enough water? Taking your antibiotics?”

 

Nodding obediently, Hawke slumps back in bed and pulls the blankets up. His head is already pounding again and his nose is running but he can tell from the pressure in his face that he won’t be able to blow it.

 

“Text me,” says Bethany, bending to kiss Hawke on the forehead. “And _email Carver_.”

 

Hawke groans.

 

“I’m writing it on the fridge, so you don’t forget,” says Bethany, getting to her feet. “Do you want me to make you some tea before I go? No? All right. I have to study for a test, so I’m at the library tonight. Tell me if anything changes.”

 

He nods but it’s getting harder and harder to stay awake; he’s sinking, suspended weightlessly among his pillows and blankets, listening to Bethany and Aveline talk quietly as his eyelids droop.

 

“He hasn’t been this sick in ages,” murmurs Bethany. “It reminds me of…” She sighs.

 

Aveline says, “I’ll drive you to the library. Fenris will look after him.”

 

“He shouldn’t have to! I’m his sister, he’s taken care of me and Carver our whole lives….”

 

“He’s your big brother,” says Aveline gently. “He didn’t want to worry you.”

 

“Idiot,” sighs Bethany. “If he ever does this again—”

 

They keep talking as they leave, voices fading into the living room, and Hawke rolls over, blanketing himself in exhausted guilt and also literal blankets.

 

Distantly, he hears the front door open and close. Dog arrives in his bedroom, claws clicking, and the bed dips as she jumps up. She snuffles at him briefly, whines in his ear, and drapes her massive furry body over his legs.

 

There’s really nothing that seems to trigger it.

 

Hawke’s half-asleep, Dog panting on his ankles, but everything keeps...moving. No matter how perfectly still Hawke stays, everything else keeps spinning.

 

Stubbornly trying to ignore it just seems to make it even more noticeable; in college, drinking in excess with Bran, Hawke had sat motionless in a moving car while planet earth careened in drunk circles around him. He had been the only stationary point, the entire universe tilting wildly on his axis, and the feeling repeats itself now. Heat suffuses his skin, body flushing hot from head to toe, and his mouth fills with saliva.

 

With a sudden horrible clarity Hawke realises he’s about to throw up.

 

Opening his eyes, Hawke fights to free himself from the confines of his blanket prison. He pats urgently at Dog, who, convinced it’s a game, gets to her feet and steps on Hawke’s thigh in her efforts to nose eagerly at his face.

 

No longer trapped by her weight, he abruptly rolls himself out of bed, lands on all fours, and throws up all over the floor.

 

It is a miserable experience that Hawke doesn’t at all recommend.

 

He’s coughing raggedly and weakly pushing Dog’s muzzle away because she’s trying to _lick his face_ and it’s disgusting when Fenris appears in the doorway of Hawke’s bedroom.

 

“Hawke! It’s been less than _ten minutes_ , what on earth—”

 

They’re probably not on earth. The force of Hawke’s nausea launched them into space. Hawke wipes his mouth on his sleeve and can’t even answer back. His throat is on fire and there are tears and probably snot streaming down his face and Hawke is so overheated he wonders if he’s about to spontaneously combust.

 

Fenris kneels down next to him and puts his arm around Hawke’s shoulders. “Are you finished?”

 

Hawke nods miserably and leans into Fenris as he helps him up. Fenris leads him patiently to the bathroom, Hawke still shaken and trembling, and then sits Hawke down on the closed lid of the toilet.

 

Drooping like a sad flower, Hawke props his hot, sticky face in his hands and wishes quietly for death.

 

Dog has followed them into the bathroom. She flops down on the bathmat and takes up nearly the entire floor.

 

Standing at the sink, Fenris wets a washcloth and says, “Clean your face, Hawke.”

 

Hawke wipes at his face with the cool, damp cloth, and feels like a small child. When he’s finished, he hands it back to Fenris and mimes drinking a glass of water. Fenris doesn’t bat an eyelid, just picks up a cup from the sink and fills it up for Hawke.

 

Rinsing out his mouth, Hawke spits into the bathtub and carefully drinks some of the water.

 

“All right?” asks Fenris. Hawke nods. “Bethany says you’ve lost your voice.”

 

Hawke makes a face and catches Fenris’s smirk before he hides it.

 

“Don’t move from here,” says Fenris. “I’m going to clean up your room.”

 

Oh, god. Fenris shouldn’t have to do that. Hawke reaches out to snag Fenris by the elbow, tugging at his sleeve; he tries to communicate through facial expressions alone that he’ll clean up the mess.

 

Fenris shakes his head. “It’s fine. Stay here, don’t move. Just drink that water. _Slowly_.”

 

Hawke is too sick and sore and tired to refuse.

 

At his feet, Dog lets out a sympathetic whimper.

 

oOo

 

Hawke writes _Thank you for cleaning up my vomit_ on the whiteboard and then, after a pause, writes _I’m sorry_ and underlines it three times.

 

“You’re welcome,” says Fenris. “It’s fine.” He fidgets briefly next to Hawke on the couch and then adds, “Helping you is no trouble.”

 

They sit in reasonably comfortable silence, listlessly watching TV. It’s not the Food Network, because Chopped is on, and Hawke doesn’t know how to watch Chopped if he can’t yell at the television. Instead, they’re watching reruns of Friends. Every so often, Fenris chuckles softly, while Hawke largely ignores the TV and drifts into brief dozes.

 

Jerking awake again, Hawke has a sudden realisation. He writes _You were going to tell me something_ on the whiteboard and puts it in Fenris’s lap.

 

Next to him, Fenris stiffens. “I was,” he murmurs. “You remembered.”

 

Eventually. Maybe Fenris wanted him to forget. Rubbing out the whiteboard with his sleeve, Hawke quickly scrawls out a new sentence: _You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to!_

 

“No, it’s…” Fenris clears his throat. “It’s fine. It’s no secret and I intended to tell you.” Fenris keeps his gaze fixed on the TV as he says, “I was in a car accident almost two years ago. I only remember waking up in the hospital. I don’t remember the accident, though it was explained to me, several times, and I…”

 

Fenris trails off, voice tinged with frustration. He scowls at the television and Hawke waits for him to continue, his heart pounding.

 

“I don’t remember the accident,” continues Fenris. “I don’t remember anything. That’s all I wanted to tell you. I don’t remember my life. You mentioned a fear of forgetting your father, and I…”

 

Fenris sets his jaw. “It’s retrograde amnesia. Long-term memory loss. Apparently I am very much… myself. My sister claims my personality is mostly unchanged, but I don’t remember her. I don’t remember my mother, or father, though… Varania explained she doesn’t recall him either. He left. I… I don’t remember anything. I don’t know myself. I thought I should tell you.”

 

Hawke has no clue what to do. He is briefly and passionately relieved he cannot speak right now, because he would surely say too much of the wrong thing.

 

Beside him, Fenris is hunched over, shoulders up around his ears. His fingers fray at the hem of his sweater.

 

Rubbing out the whiteboard, Hawke stares at it before carefully writing, _Thank you for telling me, Fenris_.

 

Fenris huffs, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’m supposed to practice overtures of trust this week,” he mumbles sullenly. “And… You trusted me enough to put my name down as your emergency contact, _despite_ your lack of communication in conveying that decision to me.”

 

Hawke has to write much smaller to fit his next message in. _I’m sorry. That wasn’t okay!!! I’ll get HR to change it back to Bethy when I go back to work. I should never have let that happen, it was v careless_

 

“I’m uncomfortable with the responsibility,” says Fenris. “As it stands, I can barely make informed decisions about my own life. How could I possibly be expected to know how to care for yours?”

 

When Hawke’s mother died several years after the death of his father, he was only twenty.

 

A legal, responsible adult, able to take on legal, adult responsibilities like taking custody of Bethany and Carver. Hawke had dropped out of college, fought to get a refund on his tuition, and, in the space of less than six months, found them an apartment, completed a training program to become a nursing assistant, and gotten a full-time job.

 

A constant mental refrain of _I need an adult_ narrated his daily existence. _I need an adult I need an adult I need an adult_ bouncing around helplessly in his head, only he _was_ the adult. It was him. He was the adult now, learning how to file taxes and shop for groceries and apply for insurance.

 

There wasn’t anyone adultier than him that could fix this.

 

_I feel like a child. How can I care for two other children?_

 

Hawke had eventually broken down in the laundromat, sobbing over a lost roll of quarters, exhausted and emotionally drained. He’d met Varric that day, blessedly more of an adult than Hawke, offering him enough quarters to finish his laundry.

 

Hawke knows all about terrifying, unwanted responsibility. He gets it. Fenris doesn’t even know himself, the last thing he needs is someone like Hawke, recklessly making decisions for him.

 

“It’s not that I think your trust in me is misplaced,” offers Fenris awkwardly in the wake of Hawke’s silence. “I am… flattered?”

 

 _You should be_ , writes Hawke, grinning and winking at Fenris. _But you’re very trustworthy. Good face. I bet you’ve never spilled anyone’s secrets._

 

“I wouldn’t know,” says Fenris wryly.

 

Hawke rubs out the whiteboard with his sleeve and stares at it. _You don’t have to answer… but do you remember anything at all?_

 

Fenris reads what Hawke’s written and then reaches out to take the board from him. He erases it and draws a tree and a tire swing. “Images, sometimes. Impressions. I have not told Varania, but I remember a yard and this tree. There was a swing, like this. I remember her red hair in the sun… it must be her, pushing me on the swing.”

 

For a moment, he just looks at the picture he’s drawn. Then he rubs it out and hands the whiteboard back to Hawke. “That’s all. Everything else is fragments. I don’t know where any of it fits in.”

 

Hawke writes, _Where do we stand on hugs?_

 

Fenris blinks at him. “Huh?”

 

“Hugs,” mouths Hawke. He stands up, shedding blankets and tissues, and opens his arms.

 

He wouldn’t blame Fenris for refusing to touch him, considering, but Fenris raises his eyebrows and quirks his mouth in a faint grin before getting up and stepping into the circle of Hawke’s arms.

 

Hawke doesn’t do hugs halfway. He wraps his arms around Fenris snugly, resting his chin on the top of his head and giving him a warm, engulfing squeeze. Fenris mutters something against Hawke’s chest and pats him firmly on the back. His hair smells good. Hawke can’t smell too much of anything, right now, but he can tell that it smells nice.

 

Eventually, he releases Fenris, worried he’ll drip fluid on him, and Fenris steps back and clears his throat, coughing into his fist. “Thank you for… listening,” he says. “Would you like some tea? I’m going to make a pot.”

 

And then he buggers off into the kitchen at light speed and Hawke abruptly loses structural integrity in his legs and has to sit down to recover from the exertion of standing up and dispensing bear hugs.

 

He wants to tell Fenris that he’d like cream and sugar but he can’t.

 

Slumping back on the couch, he gropes around for his blanket and finds his phone instead.

 

 **hawke** : i hugged fenris

 

 **varric** : i thought we talked about this

 

 **hawke** : he smells so nice

 

 **varric** : please don’t tell me these things

 

 **hawke** : i like him a lot

 **hawke** : we’ve been bonding

 

 **varric** : HAWKE

 

 **hawke** : oh perish the thought!

 **hawke** : that wasn’t a euphemism

 

 **varric** : oh thank god

 **varric** : even if it was, don’t tell me

 **varric** : let me hold onto this

 

 **hawke** : he’s making me tea because he loves me

 

 **varric** : uh huh

 

 **hawke** : he told me all about himself

 

 **varric** : i have to admit these living arrangements are lasting a lot longer than I thought they would

 

 **hawke** : how dare you harbour such doubts about my wit and charm

 **hawke** : i’m an excellent roommate

 **hawke** : and i’m also very pretty

 

 **varric** : the prettiest

 

 **hawke** : flatterer!

 **hawke** : there’s so much love here

 

Varric doesn’t reply to that. Hawke sighs.

 

When Fenris returns with his tea, he’s made it with cream and sugar, milky and sweet. Hawke mimes wiping away a single tear and Fenris just rolls his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a long-running friends with benefits "arrangement" comes to its natural conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: very mild bondage, orgasm denial

Hawke is sick for over a week.

 

He returns to work when he gets his voice back, and spends an entire shift whispering unnecessarily at Anders, who is a poor sport about it, really. Hawke’s still technically an invalid, he’s allowed to be this annoying.

 

“Make sure you take the entire course of antibiotics,” says Anders, again.

 

“Your concern was touching the first time,” says Hawke. “Now I’m just assuming you think I’m an idiot.”

 

“I found you passed out on the floor in a puddle of blood,” points out Anders. “You had a _concussion_. Also, you looked ridiculous. Just so you know. Limbs, everywhere, like a muppet without a puppeteer.”

 

“What a delightful image,” says Hawke. “Truly. You are a master craftsman of language.”

 

“Your legs are just so long,” sighs Anders. “I nearly tripped over them trying to check your pulse.”

 

“It’s a challenge to buy trousers,” says Hawke. “I have to go to a special shop.”

 

“My soul weeps for you and your absurd height.” Anders’s soul is not weeping, at least not visibly. Anders isn’t even looking at him because he is busy unpacking his lunch, removing a container of hummus and veggies from his bag.

 

“Don’t weep too hard. You know what I’ve discovered?” asks Hawke eagerly.

 

“Do I really _want_ to know?” Now Anders is unpacking a thermos of soup.

 

“Fenris comes up to my chin when we hug,” says Hawke, gesturing helpfully with his hand. “Just here.” He pauses. “Well, not just when we hug. He comes up to here all the time, but I found out when we hugged. Because that happened.”

 

Anders violently bites into a carrot stick and chews at him, spectacularly unimpressed.

 

“He tucks right underneath.” Hawke is undeterred. “We’re practically puzzle pieces.”

 

“I’m happy for you,” crunches Anders. “Shall I go ahead and have engagement party invitations made?”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” says Hawke. “It’s a nice thought, though.”

 

When he checks his phone, he finds a text from Fenris.

 

 **fenris** : Please try not to fall over at work this time.

 

 **hawke** : i’m sitting down atm

 **hawke** : but thank you

 **hawke** : i forgot my lunch

 **hawke** : :(

 

 **fenris** : >:(

 

 **hawke** : omg

 **hawke** : i can picture you making that face so easily

 

 **fenris** : Do you want me to bring you your lunch?

 

 **hawke** : no!!!!!!

 **hawke** : go to bed

 **hawke** : i’ll steal some of anders’s soup

 **hawke** : it looks like tomato

 

“Can I have some soup?” asks Hawke.

 

“Hm?” Anders raises his eyes from his own phone. “Why? Didn’t you bring something?”

 

“I forgot it at home,” says Hawke. He makes a pleading face. “You don’t want me to get lightheaded, do you?”

 

“You are ridiculous,” scoffs Anders. “There’s a sandwich in the fridge. I brought it for tomorrow night, but you can have it. Don’t forget that I was promised roast chicken, at some point. You can bring me that in return.”

 

Hawke grins. “You’re my hero.”

 

“And all I had to do was give you a sandwich,” says Anders. “You’re too easy.”

 

 **hawke** : anders is saving me with a sandwich

 

 **fenris** : What an indescribable relief.

 **fenris** : You won’t starve.

 **fenris** : I’m going to sleep, Hawke.

 

 **hawke** : GOOD

 

And then Hawke tries to type out “sweet dreams” while simultaneously eating a sandwich, and the resulting mess of letters auto-corrects to a phrase he sends quite often to Bran instead:

 

 **hawke** : show me your DICK

 **hawke** : ....................oh no

 **hawke** : oh god

 

 **fenris** : ...............................

 

 **hawke** : um

 **hawke** : i meant to send that to brandon??

 

 **fenris** : Evidently.

 **fenris** : Though you seem unsure.......

 

 **hawke** : oh my god

 **hawke** : i’m sorry

 **hawke** : delete this

 **hawke** : DELETE ME

 

“Oh my sweet Jesus Christ,” says Hawke weakly. “Kindly cancel my phone plan. No, actually, just cancel my _life_.”

 

“What have you done now?” says Anders, with mild disinterest.

 

“I just asked Fenris to show me his dick,” says Hawke. “I was trying to wish him a good night. I’m fine. This is fine. I’m just going to flee the country. I’ll always have my looks.”

 

“I hate you a lot,” says Anders. “Give me back that sandwich.”

 

“First of all, no,” says Hawke. “Second of all, I’ve put my mouth on it. Do you really want all my sick germs?”

 

“I’m not going to eat it,” scoffs Anders. “I’m going to throw it in the trash. You don’t deserve it.”

 

“I don’t,” says Hawke mournfully. “I really don’t. But seriously, no, I’m still eating the rest of this.”

 

Hawke spends the rest of his lunch break staring meaningfully at his phone, but Fenris doesn’t text him back.

 

oOo

 

Hawke’s standing in the kitchen in his boxers after work, toasting pop tarts, when his apartment door opens, and the click of claws signals Dog and Bethany’s return from the traditional morning walk.

 

He is entirely unprepared for Bethany _and_ Fenris to follow Dog into the kitchen.

 

“Oh Garrett, _why_ ,” groans Bethany when she sees him. “How hard is it to put on clothes after you put your scrubs into the hamper?”

 

“I haven’t showered yet,” mumbles Hawke through a mouthful of scalding pastry. “I’m not putting on fresh pyjamas before I’ve showered!”

 

Fenris peers at him through squinty green eyes; he’s wearing leggings, an over-sized hoodie, and his dressing gown, the entire just-rolled-out-of-bed look completed by the incongruous pair of orange flip-flops on his feet. His hair looks like a haystack. It is abundantly clear that he is reluctantly wandering the land of the living.

 

“Is he sleepwalking?” Hawke asks Bethany, keeping his gaze warily on Fenris. “You know it is safe to wake him, right?”

 

“I _am_ awake, Hawke,” mutters Fenris, knuckling at his eyes.

 

“He speaks,” gasps Hawke. “What’s going on?”

 

“Dog was sleeping in Fenris’s room,” says Bethany. “She woke him up when I came in. He decided to come down for a walk with us.”

 

“I don’t work today,” says Fenris, shrugging one shoulder. He glances quickly at Hawke. “We brought coffee.”

 

“Fenris, you are the wind beneath my wings,” says Hawke.

 

Fenris stares at him, his tired little face unsure of how to settle on an expression. “...Thank you.”

 

“And what am I?” demands Bethany.

 

“The sunshine of my life,” says Hawke promptly.

 

Bethany can’t help her smile. “You’re such a wretch. All right, I’m off. I have two essays due this week and I’ve only started one of them. I’m going to go make the library my home.” She passes the bag she’s holding to Fenris and gives him a one-armed hug before moving on to Hawke and rising up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

 

“You don’t have to let her sleep in your room if she disrupts you,” says Hawke worriedly, when Bethany’s left. He bends down to pet Dog. She headbutts him with significant force and licks crumbs out of his beard. “You can boot her out at bedtime,” he adds, pushing Dog’s enthusiastic muzzle out of his face.

 

“I don’t mind,” says Fenris. “I did not sleep well. It was not her fault I woke early.”

 

“I’m sorry if I kept you up last night,” says Hawke. “And I apologise for asking you to show me your dick. That text was a highly unfortunate accident. Apparently I say it often enough to Bran that my phone corrected a perfectly innocent message to that phrase instead, but… I was just trying to say ‘sweet dreams.’ I’m sure your dick is perfectly lovely, though, especially if those tattoos go all the way down!”

 

Hawke’s verbal incontinence is met with ringing silence. He can feel his stomach sinking slowly but surely into the floor. He shouldn’t be allowed to interact with anyone this early in the morning.

 

“I’m not actually conscious enough to deal with this conversation,” admits Fenris eventually. “We’ll… have to continue later.”

 

“Or not. We can continue this never and just pretend you’re sleepwalking, if you like,” suggests Hawke. “We can erase the last five minutes of our lives entirely.”

 

Fenris huffs softly, almost laughing. “I’ll endeavour to forget, if you wish.” His gaze keeps jumping from Hawke’s face to his chest and then skittering down the plane of his belly, and Hawke remembers he’s mostly naked and very likely has fragments of breakfast in his chest hair, so this is probably the most embarrassing morning he’s experienced since waking up naked on the quad in college after frosh week.

 

“I’m just sorry for me, really,” says Hawke. “Just. All of it.”

 

Fenris reaches out to pat Hawke vaguely on the arm. “Shut up, Hawke. I’m sleepwalking back to bed.”

 

“You’re a more reasonable man than me,” says Hawke, picking up his second pop tart. “That can-do attitude will take you far.”

 

He can hear Fenris laughing all the way down the hall to his bedroom.

 

oOo

 

For nearly two weeks following Hawke’s convalescence, Hawke and Bran don’t see each other.

 

He’s on the couch with Fenris on a Saturday afternoon, watching the Food Network while Fenris closes his eyes for longer and longer periods of time, when he checks his phone and realises the last time he texted Bran was Monday. Unacceptable.

 

 **hawke** : I don’t know about you

 **hawke** : but I could go for a good hard fuck

 

Bran doesn’t text him back right away, which is incredibly rude, so Hawke slouches down and tries to focus on the Barefoot Contessa.

 

“But store bought is fine too,” mutters Fenris, hugging a pillow and narrowing his eyes at the screen. It’s the first thing he’s said in an hour.

 

“Take a nap, darling,” says Hawke absently. “The reruns will still be there when you wake up.” His phone pings.

 

 **bran** : give me a call when you’re free?

 

 **hawke** : what a coincidence, i am free right now

 

Fenris has closed his eyes again, head listing forward. Hawke dials Bran, propping the phone against his ear as he reaches for the remote to lower the volume.

 

“You need to get a life,” says Bran, by way of greeting.

 

“Let’s not pretend that what I do with my life matters to you,” retorts Hawke. “Can I come over, or what? You’ve been oddly incommunicado. Have you found someone else with an arse that rivals mine?”

 

There’s a muffled sigh, and then Bran sounding distracted as he says, “Listen. I’ve been meaning to talk with you. Why don’t I take you out for coffee, instead.”

 

For a precious few seconds, Hawke is speechless. “I’ve just phoned you for sex,” he explains slowly. He glances sidelong at Fenris, but he’s definitely asleep this time, breathing soft and steady through his nose, eyebrows pinched in a faint frown.

 

“And I’m asking you out for coffee,” snaps Bran, irritated. “Don’t make this weird.”

 

“I’m not making it weird, you’re making it weird. Are you asking me on a _date_?”

 

“Sure, if that’s what you need to tell yourself. I’ll meet you at Merrill’s in half an hour. Bye, Hawke.” He hangs up, and Hawke stares at his phone, dumbstruck. He’s known Bran for ten years. They’ve been fucking for a decade, and this is the first time Bran’s ever asked him to do anything remotely date-like.

 

He pulls a blanket over Fenris and then goes to get dressed, pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, collecting keys, wallet, and shoes, before heading down to the parking garage.

 

On the drive to the coffee shop, he catalogues possible explanations: Bran is ill, Bran is dying, Bran has met someone else. Bran is… secretly in love with him?

 

By the time he’s found a parking spot and heading inside, he’s convinced himself Bran has a terminal illness and he’s planning to break it to Hawke over a latte.

 

He spots Bran by the counter, waiting for his order, and he looks… tired? Drained? His colour is quite pale. This doesn’t bode well. He’s definitely not expecting Bran to see Hawke approaching, straighten up, and then lean forward to kiss him in greeting.

 

“I got you that thing you like, with extra whip,” says Bran, pursing his lips in distaste, as if they always do this. As if Hawke can’t count the number of times Bran has kissed him in public on one hand. “I even asked for chocolate sprinkles.”

 

“You _are_ dying,” blurts Hawke.

 

“What?” says Bran, scowling. “Don’t be ridiculous, Garrett.” He picks up their coffees from the counter, thanks the barista, and gives Hawke his drink.

 

They take a seat by the window. Bran watches the street, sipping his coffee and frowning. Under the table, Hawke can feel him restlessly jiggling his leg.

 

“It’s a bit late to start dating, don’t you think?” murmurs Hawke. He sips his drink and gets a mouthful of whipped cream.

 

“I’ve been promoted,” says Bran. “At work.” He makes a face, still not looking at Hawke. “It’s quite a large raise. The level of responsibility I’m being given is, frankly, appalling.”

 

“Poor baby,” coos Hawke, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes. “What a trial your life is.”

 

“Yes, well,” Bran huffs, reaching up to pinch briefly at the bridge of his nose. “It’s why I’ve not been around.”

 

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” says Hawke. “Or are they not?”

 

For a long, awkward moment, Bran says nothing. He has not looked Hawke in the eyes once since they sat down, and if Hawke were really pressed to describe the expression on his face, he’d have to use a word like ‘sad’ or ‘gutted’ and he’s very rarely witnessed anything like that in relation to Bran.

 

“Brandon,” he says quietly. “You’ve bought me coffee. We’re on a date. What’s going on.”

 

Bran wrinkles his nose. “I have to move. For the job. The promotion is internal, but the position they want me to fill is in Los Angeles. I’ve already agreed. I leave next week.”

 

“Oh,” says Hawke. It’s like he’s hearing his own voice from very far away. “That’s… wonderful. Well done, you.”

 

“Yes, well done, me,” says Bran, voice tinged with vague irritation. “I’ve just been thinking, is all. I can hardly move to LA and leave your sorry self here and not….” He pauses, clearing his throat. “We should break up. Not _a_ break, or an ‘indefinite hiatus’, or whatever you called it when I went to Prague, that one summer after I finished college. A clean break.”

 

“You can’t break up with someone if you were never dating in the first place,” says Hawke. He taps at his cooling coffee cup and snags his lower lip between his teeth, chewing reflexively. Across the street, a man is attempting to flag down a taxi and failing repeatedly. Hawke focuses on Taxi Man’s garish trousers and tries not to think about the tight nausea building in his belly.

 

“Don’t be obtuse,” says Bran, sighing. “Did you honestly think we’d do this forever?”

 

“I suppose not.” Hawke takes a sip of his latte, more out of reflex than any lingering desire to actually drink it. “Do you feel sorry for me? Is that it?”

 

“Garrett, Christ,” groans Bran. “You do this to yourself, you know. You find a comfortable routine and you don’t deviate. Your job, your friends, me… It’s been ten years. Off and on, for ten years. What’s the longest you’ve dated someone in between shagging me?”

 

Hawke feels a bit numb around the edges as he shrugs a shoulder. “Dunno. A couple of months?”

 

“Mm.” Bran leans forward, brown eyes finally shifting from the street onto Hawke’s face. “Same.”

 

Hawke lets out a breath. “You’re right, of course. You smug tit. Are we being adults? Is that what’s happening here? I don’t like it. I’m not a fan of… confronting my insecurities and inadequacies in the hopes of growing as a person.”

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I… do have a vested interest in your well-being,” says Bran. “And I would like you to have a relationship that gives you what you need. That’s not with me, love. It was never going to be, was it? It’s definitely not going to be, if we just get together for a quick fuck whenever I’m back here on business.”

 

“A clean break, then,” says Hawke, meeting Bran’s gaze squarely. “For both of us. You want to break up for good this time.”

 

Bran rolls his eyes. “I’m no less set in my ways than you are. I’m breaking out in hives just having this sort of conversation, if I’m honest. We should have gone to the bar, instead, done some shots. Ten years is a long time, Garrett.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me on our first date,” says Hawke.

 

The joke falls flat, but Bran laughs anyway. “You are just as annoying now as you were when we first met.”

 

“This is probably best for us both.” The man across the street has given up trying to flag down a taxi, and is now waiting at the bus stop. “You think breaking it off will… force a change in my comfortable routine.”

 

“You don’t try at anything, Hawke,” says Bran. “If there is the slightest chance you’ll fail, you just don’t try at all. The reason this lasted so long between us is because you didn’t have to try at it. At us. Neither of us has ever had to try. It hasn’t changed, _we_ haven’t changed. We’re ten years older and still using each other as cheap comfort.”

 

That needles at him a little; Hawke can’t veil the hurt that must steal over his face quickly enough. Here, too, Bran knows him best.

 

He sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

“Humour me a little,” says Hawke. “Do you love me?”

 

“I love you,” says Bran easily. “I’m not _in_ love with you.”

 

“Brandon,” says Hawke.

 

“Mm?”

 

“I’m finished with my drink.”

 

Bran walks him out and they linger on the sidewalk. The sun has disappeared below the horizon and the sky is a faint, fading pink. Bran pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, red hair falling into his eyes. Hawke leans against the brick wall of the coffee shop and squints at him in the deepening darkness.

 

“If we’re not friends,” says Hawke, “And we’re not ‘with benefits,’ then what are we?”

 

“You know we’re friends,” says Bran, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He seems to second-guess himself, looks up at Hawke and frowns uncertainly, “Don’t you?”

 

Hawke smiles. His stomach is tight, and he’s increasingly adrift, but he just got Bran to worriedly admit they’re friends. “Will I see you before you move?”

 

“You can come by next Saturday,” says Bran. “We can… One last hurrah, yes?”

 

“So we _are_ scheduling sex,” says Hawke.

 

“Don’t make me regret this,” warns Bran, rolling his eyes.

 

“All right,” nods Hawke. “Next Saturday.”

 

“Listen,” says Bran. He reaches out, takes Hawke by the arm the way he always does when he wants Hawke to bend a little, cupping his elbow and drawing him down so that Bran doesn’t need to rise up on his sneakers to kiss Hawke on the forehead.

 

“I’ll miss you—” Bran clears his throat, grins with obnoxious volume, “—r arse.”

 

Hawke snorts and pulls Bran’s hood down over his eyes.

 

oOo

 

For the first ten minutes of the drive home, Hawke is okay, and then his heart and stomach abruptly collapse into a singularity, a sucking void of miserable sadness, and Hawke has to cut across three lanes of traffic to turn off into the parking lot of the nearest Publix and buy four pints of Phish Food ice cream.

 

By the time he gets back home, he has mentally rearranged his weekend. He is going to build a fort in his bed and not leave the safety of his blanket fortress until work on Monday night.

 

Dog greets him at the door, bowling heavily into his legs, her tail wagging furiously. At least someone is happy. When Hawke doesn’t immediately react with effusive praise in response to her very existence as a dog, she whines and cocks her head, ears perked.

 

Hawke doesn’t know what to do. He’s not particularly good at sifting through his own emotions. He knows he’s upset. More upset than he’d ever like to admit, really. There’s a knot in his stomach and his eyes are burning with unshed tears, throat closing up painfully tight.

 

“Listen,” he says to Dog. “He’s moving away. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both totally fine. It’s only Brandon.”

 

He sits down on the floor next to the welcome mat, puts down his plastic bag full of ice cream, and wraps his arms around Dog. She squirms for a minute, licking sloppily at his face, then sits down on her haunches. Hawke just tightens his grip, burying his face in her thick fur. The first sob is a surprise to them both, Dog startling, her tongue darting out nervously to catch the shell of his ear, but Hawke is committed to it, now, body shuddering as he starts to cry.

 

Maybe Dog remembers the last time he did this, because she goes still and pants quietly next to his ear while he hides his tears in her dark fur and clings hard to her solid bulk.

 

“...Hawke?”

 

“ _Shit_ ,” he mutters, jumping to his feet. He covers his face with his hands, scrubbing the tears off his cheeks.

 

Fenris stands in the entryway in his pyjamas, face blotchy with pillow creases, looking groggy and confused.

 

“I forgot you were here,” offers Hawke stupidly, his face flushing. “Shit.”

 

Fenris looks him up and down and runs his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair. “I fell asleep in front of the TV. I heard you….” Fenris clears his throat awkwardly. “Hawke?”

 

“I bought ice cream,” says Hawke, retrieving the bag from the floor. “It’s, uh. The kind with the little fudge fish. I’ll get some spoons.”

 

Hawke can feel Fenris’s eyes on him as he passes by on his way to the kitchen. There is no doubt in Hawke’s mind that Fenris has nothing but regrets about moving in. As he’s putting two pints of the ice cream in the freezer, Dog enters the kitchen, claws clicking on the linoleum, and a moment later she shoulders against his thigh.

 

“You’ll trip me up,” he says, turning to look down at her.

 

There’s movement from the corner of his eye. When he looks over, he realises Fenris has followed him in as well, hovering in the kitchen doorway, his hands tucked in the front pocket of his hoodie.

 

“I’m fine,” repeats Hawke, closing the freezer door. He removes two spoons from the dish rack and hands one to Fenris along with a pint of ice cream.

 

“I didn’t say anything.” Fenris is watching him carefully, like he’s waiting for Hawke to start crying again.

 

“You were thinking loudly,” says Hawke. Fenris follows him to the living room, too, and they retake their seats from before Hawke left to meet Bran. Hawke yanks off the lid of his ice cream and jams the spoon inside. Fenris pulls his knees up on the couch and does the same, eating a spoonful of ice cream and staring ahead at the TV, which is still tuned to the Food Network.

 

“Thank you,” offers Fenris belatedly. “For the… ice cream.”

 

“I didn’t actually buy it for you,” admits Hawke. “I was going to eat it all myself.”

 

“I know,” says Fenris. “That’s why I’m saying thank you.”

 

“Do you know how long I’ve known Brandon?” asks Hawke abruptly.

 

Fenris crunches on a fudge fish and slowly shakes his head.

 

“Ten years,” says Hawke. “We met in college.”

 

“I… did not realise it had been so long,” says Fenris.

 

They eat ice cream in relative silence; the volume of the television is still turned down low, no more than a background murmur. Fenris has turned the closed captioning on again, though, and there’s a steady flow of subtitles on the screen that seem slightly out of sync with what’s happening.

 

“Garrett,” says Fenris quietly.

 

Hawke startles and is careful not to draw attention to the fact that this is the first time Fenris has called him by his given name. “Mm?”

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Oh,” says Hawke, letting out a gusty sigh. “Beyond feeling rather pathetic and sorry for myself, yes, I’m fine. I’m more upset about getting dumped than I ever thought I’d be, considering, but it’s not like we were ever going to… you know, get married.”

 

Fenris is stonily silent for long seconds, his hand stopping mid-air in bringing his spoon to his mouth.

 

Hawke glances at him sidelong. “You’ll make a mess,” he cautions.

 

With a vicious frown, Fenris transfers the ice cream back into the tub and sets it aside. “You’ve been dumped,” he says flatly.

 

“Mm, yes. That’s what I said.”

 

“By _Brandon_.”

 

Hawke is a little startled by the way Fenris spits out Bran’s name, but he keeps it to himself. “It’s not like that. He’s moving to Los Angeles.”

 

It’s honestly disturbing, the way Hawke can see the literal daggers Fenris is throwing with his eyes. “After _ten years_?” demands Fenris. “He just… _leaves you_?” The tips of his ears are flushed the same incensed red as his cheeks.

 

“I think you have the wrong idea about us,” Hawke says cautiously, privately quashing how touching he finds Fenris’s visceral concern. “Fenris… what kind of relationship, exactly, do you think we had?”

 

Fenris’s eyes narrow and he shrugs one shoulder. “A romantic one. Though considering the way he talks about you—”

 

“Oh god,” says Hawke. “Oh, no. Fenris.” Hawke can feel his own face heating up, embarrassment and enlightenment flooding him as one humiliating emotion. Of course Fenris thinks they were dating. Why wouldn’t he?

 

Hawke just told him he got dumped. People only get dumped when they’ve been dating. He’s repeatedly come home from sex and cheerfully explained he was ‘on a date’ and Fenris has only ever seen Brandon and Hawke be their typical, antagonistic, _awful_ selves without any of the context available to people that have known them longer, like Varric or Aveline.

 

Hawke is a fucking idiot.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers, infinitely flustered by his own oblivious cluelessness. “This must seem so—oh my god, you must think we’re both terrible. Oh my god. Fenris, no, we—we were roommates in my first semester of college. It’s never been… anything more than a physical relationship.” He’s absolutely positive someone could legitimately fry an egg on his face right now. “We had one or two very mature conversations early on establishing we did not want to date and then… we’re friends. We’ve always just been friends that fuck. This is far too much information, I’m so sorry.”

 

“I see,” says Fenris slowly.

 

“We agreed to move on,” Hawke explains. “Together, the two of us agreed to… let each other move on with our lives. We got too comfortable in a relationship based on flimsy faux-disdain.”

 

“I apologise,” says Fenris stiffly. “It was not my place to judge.”

 

“No, you… It would look awful, to someone that didn’t know us,” says Hawke, sighing. “I really am… grateful for your concern.”

 

“You were upset,” mumbles Fenris. He’s picked up his ice cream again and is stirring it around as it slowly melts. “You have… been a kind friend to me, Hawke. I would hardly like to see you be treated so thoughtlessly by someone I understood you were fond of.”

 

“He’s my best friend,” says Hawke. “I should have made that more clear. You know how sometimes, you’re an asshole to your best friend? It’s just… your thing. It’s a game.”

 

“No,” admits Fenris. “I don’t… know.”

 

“Of course,” says Hawke, rubbing at his face. “Sorry.”

 

Fenris laughs. “That’s not your fault. Can I tell you something?”

 

“Always,” says Hawke earnestly.

 

Fenris ducks his head and smiles. “My doctor told me patients with my type of memory loss often attempt to jog their memories by visiting familiar places, looking at photos, listening to stories told by family members. In reality, it doesn’t work that way. I’ve learned that episodic memory can just return suddenly, without a trigger. When I woke up after the accident, I remembered how to tie my shoes and drive a car. I did not remember my own name, or my sister’s. I didn’t recognize her face.”

 

Hawke feels a stab of guilty remorse; _“She’s your family! I can’t even imagine what could possibly come between me and Bethany to make us grow apart.”_

 

“Her distress was… too much, in the end,” continues Fenris quietly. “Instead of trying to surround myself in familiar things, I wanted to retreat from my continued failure at remembering and leave entirely. I avoid speaking to her because her expectations of who I should be are impossible for me to meet when I can’t remember myself.” He shrugs. “I’m a coward. But you are… the first person I have built a relationship with on my own. I don’t always know what people do with one another. I’m not always comfortable relearning. But you have made me feel more… at ease to try.”

 

It’s a testament to how emotional Hawke is feeling that his eyes prickle with tears and he has to put down his ice cream to wipe his eyes. “I’ve always worried we got off on the wrong foot,” he laughs weakly. “What a relief to know I haven’t completely ruined your life after such a traumatic event. To be honest, I’m much more accustomed to being told I’ve fucked up.”

 

“We may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” allows Fenris. “But you are a… charming man, Hawke. I have seen you be nothing less than consistently generous and kind-hearted.”

 

“Stop,” says Hawke, his voice wavering as he rubs at his eyes. “I’m too fragile for this. Quit being nice to me.”

 

“You’re also very annoying,” amends Fenris easily. “You drop your towels on the floor and your dog has drooled on all my bedding.”

 

“Listen, I’ve seen you let her sleep on your bed,” says Hawke. “Once you let her up, you’re never getting her off. You’ve only got to make the mistake one time.”

 

Fenris gives him a wry grin. “I’ll live.”

 

oOo

 

The night before Bran leaves, Hawke goes to his apartment to “help him finish packing”.

 

The thing is, Bran’s already finished packing. All his belongings have been shipped across the country, save for the suitcase he’ll be travelling with, so Hawke ends up tied to the headboard with a belt, Bran sitting firmly on Hawke’s dick, instead.

 

“I hope you appreciate this,” pants Bran, freckled skin flushed with heat, leaning forward to grip the headboard himself for leverage as he rocks his hips in leisurely rolls. “I hope you remember this for _years_.”

 

Hawke nearly swallows his tongue. “I’ll have a painting commissioned.”

 

Bran laughs, his voice a little strained, hips working. “Hang it above your bed.”

 

“Brandon, I need—”

 

“No, don’t ruin it,” grunts Bran, tossing his head back. “Don’t you dare ruin this! Hold on, Garrett.”

 

There’s nothing for Hawke to do but quite literally bite his tongue. Bran picks up speed, his breathing ragged and heavy as he grinds down and rocks back up in broad, lazy strokes of his hips. Hawke arches into him, arms and legs straining; every time Bran bottoms out, he _squeezes_ , hot and tight, and Hawke chokes out increasingly distressed whimpers.

 

“Brandon—!”

 

“Don’t you dare,” whispers Bran, skin gleaming, hair hanging damp and limp across his forehead. “Not yet.”

 

“ _Brandon_ ,” whines Hawke.

 

“Don’t come. I’m… almost,” Bran says, practically breathless. “Just—nearly—”

 

Hawke deliberately thumps his skull on the headboard and squeezes his eyes shut, entire body vibrating with the tension of holding back his building orgasm; the pleasure at the base of his belly coils like a rope, thighs aching as he arches off the bed.

 

Bran doesn’t warn him when he _does_ come, hips slapping down, clenching hard around Hawke’s cock, body tensing with a shudder that resonates into Hawke like a shock wave. Hawke cries out at the pressure and then Bran comes across Hawke’s chest and up onto his face, which triggers a sympathetic orgasm in Hawke, who nearly knocks Bran right off his dick with the force of his thrust.

 

“Well,” groans Hawke when he can speak again, slumping down in the mess of pillows and blankets. “That was all right.”

 

“You’re such a piece of shit,” laughs Bran shakily, flicking Hawke in the nipple. “You’ll carry that fuck with you for the rest of your life, Hawke.”

 

Hawke sighs. “And now you’re leaving me. I should have known about you from the beginning. In the immortal words of Taylor Swift—”

 

Bran rolls his eyes. “Please don’t.”

 

“But Brandon—”

 

“No. Shut up.”

 

“Brandon.”

 

“ _No_!”

 

“I—”

 

“Don’t say it, Garrett, so help me!”

 

Hawke draws in a breath and belts it out. “ _Ohhh_ , I knew you were trouble when you walked iiiin, so shame on me n-owwWW—”

 

“ _HAWKE_.”

 

“—FLEW ME TO PLACES I NEVER BEEEEEN, NOW I’M LYING ON THE—”

 

Bran covers Hawke’s mouth with his hands. “Don’t make me smother you to death,” he threatens. “I don’t need the extra stress! I’m moving across the country tomorrow!”

 

Bran’s applying a fair bit of pressure, so Hawke can’t actually say anything. He nods instead, enough to encourage Bran into cautiously removing his hands. Hawke grins up at him and croons, “trouble, trouble, TROUBLEEEEE,” and gets a pillow held over his face in response.

 

Later, when Hawke goes to leave, Bran catches him by the wrist and pulls him back down, rolling over to spoon up behind him, his nose tucked against the knob of Hawke’s spine. Hawke shivers.

 

“You just need a ride to the airport tomorrow, don’t you,” mutters Hawke.

 

“Shut up, Garrett,” Bran sighs, his breath tickling the hair at the nape of Hawke’s neck. “Just… lie there quietly and _think_ instead of speak for once.”

 

Hawke manages to maintain introspective silence for about two minutes. “Was it good for you, too?” he teases.

 

He’s not expecting the long pause before Bran murmurs, solemn and completely serious, “Yes, love. It was good for me, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hawke takes fenris to the fair, and it is totally not a date or anything

In the morning, Bran refuses a ride to the airport.

 

“I’ve already called a taxi, no need to fuss. And I couldn’t bear… Just lock up and give the keys to the landlord, would you?”

 

He kisses Hawke, leaves him behind in his rumpled bed, and doesn’t look back.

 

Hawke stays under the covers for nearly two hours until he’s ready to go. Bran’s left a towel, some soap, and shampoo in the bathroom, so Hawke showers and then gathers everything up in a bag and locks up Bran’s apartment for the last time before carrying the bag down to the garbage. He leaves the keys with the landlord and lets himself out of the building.

 

Outside, the weather is miserable, grey clouds rolling in, thunder booming in the distance. Hawke files away a vague hope that a storm will break the humidity that’s been building as summer heat has rolled in and walks the five blocks to Isabela’s shop.

 

It’s raining by the time he gets there, ducking in to shake himself free of raindrops like a dog. Isabela looks up from the counter at the ring of the bell, her expression brightening. “Hawke. What a lovely surprise, you’ve remembered I exist. I don’t even know if you deserve this wonderful apron I’ve been keeping aside for you for weeks. ”

 

Hawke gives her a crooked, sheepish grin. “Isabela. How do you feel about taking a long lunch with me at Merrill’s? I’m buying.”

 

“Of course you are,” says Isabela, already closing down the cash. “I deserve nothing less.”

 

She finishes locking the register drawer up in the safe, coming out from behind the counter. He leans in and she kisses him on the cheek. “Are you alright, darling? You look a bit… peaky.”

 

“I’ve never been entirely sure what that means,” says Hawke. “It’s raining.”

 

“Ah,” says Isabela, grabbing an enormous umbrella from by the door. She locks up behind them, giving the umbrella to Hawke; he opens it up on the sidewalk, holding it over both their heads. Isabela weaves their elbows together, and they begin the walk to Merrill’s.

 

“You are disturbingly quiet,” says Isabela, after an entire, silent block. “Has someone died?”

 

“No, no, sorry,” says Hawke. He pauses on the sidewalk, listening to the rain patter against the umbrella. “Only I think I’ve just fucked it all up. Of course I have. Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“Is this about Fenris?” asks Isabela sharply, her eyes narrowing.

 

“No,” says Hawke. “That’s… we’re actually doing quite well, I think. No, this is… It’s just been going round and round in my head for a week.”

 

“What is this about, Hawke?” demands Isabela. She wraps her hand around his wrist and holds him there when he tries to keep walking.

 

“What do you do when someone outgrows you?” Hawke blurts. “When you wake up and realise you’re not… enough? That you’ve let something go that you never even realised you could have?”

 

“I need more information,” says Isabela firmly. “Context, please.”

 

“I thought I had come to terms with being a disappointment,” Hawke explains. “Brandon is moving to Los Angeles. He isn’t coming back. I thought I’d be okay with that, but I was a bit of an idiot to think it didn’t mean anything to either of us.”

 

“Hawke,” says Isabela, sighing. She shakes her head, lips pursed. “You don’t just… sleep with someone for ten years and expect it won’t hurt when it stops, no matter what you’re calling it. Oh, why are you making me be serious before I’ve eaten? You’re such a pain.”

 

“I know,” says Hawke, tilting the umbrella to cover Isabela now that they’re standing a few steps apart. “I’m sorry. I’m a terrible friend.”

 

“Are you going to cry?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Fine,” she groans. “Do you need a hug?”

 

“...Yes.”

 

Isabela gives the best hugs.

 

oOo

 

Hawke buys Isabela a soup and a sandwich and a very large coffee, and they sit in a booth near the window as the sky darkens and the rain falls harder and harder.

 

“This is painful to watch,” says Isabela after a while. “You haven’t even touched your food. Who are you? Please bring Garrett back.”

 

“You don’t want him back. Garrett is a failure,” says Hawke morosely. “Garrett dropped out of college and never looked back. Garrett has worked the same job for ten years, without ever attempting to change, out of fear of continued failure.”

 

“Garrett raised his siblings after his mother died unexpectedly,” says Isabela hotly. “Garrett gave up his own education to get a job to support his family! Garrett did what he needed to do to make ends meet. Garrett kept Bethany and Carver fed and housed and he didn’t sleep properly for nearly six years in order to drive them to school, pick them up in the afternoon, and help them do their homework, all while working nights! Don’t you dare spin this as _failure_ to me, Garrett Hawke!”

 

There is ringing silence following Isabela’s impassioned speech. Hawke stares at his plate. Isabela’s glare is so sharp he imagines he’s pinned to the booth by knives.

 

“I could go back, now,” points out Hawke. “I could go back to college. For the last few years, with the twins older, I could have…. but I didn’t. Because why try at something new when you can coast on the endless shore of mediocrity?”

 

“Oh, Hawke,” says Isabela, demeanor softening. She picks up a corner of her sandwich and takes a bite, chewing furiously. She’s annoyed with him. She has every right to be, honestly. Hawke’s very irritating.

 

“I love you very much,” she says, after she’s chewed and swallowed. “You’re a good friend, you’re easy on the eyes, and you have always been there when I’ve needed someone. Even just _admitting_ these things… It has taken years of friendship and also therapy for me to comfortably acknowledge it can be safe to trust other people. You’re on that small list of people, Hawke.”

 

“I’m honoured,” says Hawke dumbly. “Isabela…”

 

“Moving on,” she says briskly. “Stop comparing yourself to other people. What good will it do you, wondering why you couldn’t be more like Bran?”

 

Hawke’s cheeks flush hot. “I was not.”

 

“You were. I know you,” says Isabela. “You were thinking of clapping for him when he graduated with honours, and you were thinking about seeing him off at the airport when he spent six months in California, on that insufferably prestigious internship. You were thinking about all the times he got promoted at work. I know exactly what you’re doing, and you will only get to hear this from me once, Hawke: you are enough. You’re just enough.”

 

Hawke definitely doesn’t feel like enough for anyone.

 

“You know, I spoke to Fenris yesterday,” says Isabela, dipping the rest of her sandwich in her soup.

 

“Did you talk about how I asked him to show me his dick?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“That’s a no, then. It was an accident.”

 

“Your brain must be a wild place,” says Isabela. “No, I can’t say that came up. He mentioned you’ve been a very good friend to him, though.”

 

Hawke flushes. “I haven’t done anything. He’s the one that took care of me when I was snotty and miserable. He cleaned up my sick! I want to marry him. I want to take him on a honeymoon to Naples or maybe Vermont.”

 

“You might try dating him, first,” suggests Isabela. “Slowly. Very slowly.”

 

“Varric told me I’m not allowed,” says Hawke. “Remember?”

 

“Since when do you listen to anything Varric says?”

 

“I’m offended,” says Hawke. “That’s offensive. How could you say that to me? How dare you imply I don’t take my dear friend’s advice into account when I make important life decisions?”

 

“Because you largely don’t,” says Isabela. “Though, honestly, that’s more to do with the fact that you don’t make very many important life decisions.”

 

“I listen to every word Varric says,” huffs Hawke. “I inscribe them all onto the stone tablet of my soul.”

 

“Do you actually try at the nonsense, or does it just… come out?” asks Isabela curiously.

 

“My nonsense is unpracticed and spontaneous,” says Hawke. He reaches across the table to steal the pickle off Isabela’s plate. “I don’t have to try at innate talent.”

 

“Well, you seem to be feeling a little better,” says Isabela. She finishes her sandwich and picks up her spoon. “Are you going to ask Fenris out?”

 

“Maybe,” says Hawke. “Or I’ll just keep pining after him admiringly from a distance.”

 

Isabela rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure you can do anything from a distance, Hawke.”

 

“I can shout from a distance,” says Hawke.

 

“I’m sure you’re physically capable of shouting at someone from far away, yes.” Isabela crumbles a package of soda crackers into her soup and stirs them in. “I’m not convinced you should yell your feelings at Fenris from the rooftops, though.”

 

“Ye of little faith,” sighs Hawke. “I could write a sonnet. Or serenade him with a song.”

 

“Please don’t. I’ve heard you try to sing,” says Isabela firmly, making a face. “Or you could just… spend time with him. Outside of the apartment. Don’t ask him on a date. Ask him to do something with you.”

 

“What if he doesn’t like me?” asks Hawke, frowning. “I don’t think he wants to strangle me quite as much anymore, and we get along, but… are you sure I should try this without knowing if he’s… _into_ me?”

 

“I’m only suggesting you spend some time together as friends, not that you should _propose_.”

 

“Does this mean you think I should return the ring?”

 

Isabela narrows her eyes. “It disturbs me that I can’t tell if you’re being serious. Oh, good lord, Hawke, I hate being the rational one in a conversation, it’s far too much pressure to live up to! I’ve already been supportive and reassuring. I can’t give dating tips, too.”

 

“You are a marshmallow,” says Hawke, giving Isabela a crooked smile. “You have sensitive depths.”

 

“Keep your voice down!” hisses Isabela. “You know what, the sonnet was a good idea. Do that.”

 

“I’ll cross-stitch some Shakespeare for him,” says Hawke, drawing a heart on the table with a bit of spilled water. “I’ll put notes in his locker. I’ll… probably do nothing.”

 

Isabela makes another face, but this one is sympathetic and indulgent. “You don’t need to do anything right away,” she says mildly. “Especially when you’re this upset about—”

 

“I’m not,” cuts in Hawke. “We’ve already established I’m fine. I’m so fine.”

 

“You _are_ fine,” drawls Isabela, winking at him, and they both grin.

 

“Who’s fine? Hawke? I agree. Very strapping. So many muscles.” Merrill appears next to their table wearing a green sundress and an earnest expression.

 

“There you are!” says Isabela happily. “Give us a kiss, kitten.”

 

Merrill leans in to press a kiss to Isabela’s lips and then drops into the empty chair at their table. “I saw you here last week, Hawke,” she says. “With that Brandon.”

 

“We were on the first and last date of our non-relationship,” says Hawke. “My life is a tragedy in three acts.”

 

Merrill glances sidelong at Isabela, who does a truly piss-poor job of not rolling her eyes. “Is this the kind of conversation that would be improved with the presence of chocolate cake? Or maybe a brownie?”

 

“Perhaps both,” says Isabela. “You can never go wrong with both.”

 

Merrill turns to wave at her barista. “Oh, Tamlen! A slice of cake and a brownie, please? Three forks. Thank you!”

 

“We’re not having this conversation, actually,” says Hawke.

 

“We can not have it while eating chocolate,” says Merrill. “Isabela is going to eat all the cake, anyway.”

 

“I’d feel like you’re calling me greedy,” says Isabela, snagging the plate with the cake on it when Tamlen brings it to their table, “But you’re also right. This is all mine.”

 

Hawke gazes mournfully at the freshly-baked brownie. “I forgot the taste of chocolate. The sound of trees…. the softness of the wind....”

 

“Thank you, Smeagol,” says Isabela crisply. She forks up a large chunk of warm brownie and shoves it at Hawke. “Put this in your mouth and stop talking.”

 

Hawke obediently leans forward and lets her cram the brownie into his mouth. “Mmph,” he mumbles, chewing. “Stht goof. Mm.”

 

“Did you remember what chocolate tastes like?” asks Merrill sweetly.

 

Hawke nods and swallows. “I’m—”

 

Isabela interrupts him with another forkful of brownie. “There we are. Hush. Sit and look pretty. Merrill, don’t encourage him. He needs to learn to communicate without using popular films or memes to express his emotions. I want him to use his own words.”

 

With Isabela and Merrill looking at him expectantly, Hawke sits up a little straighter, swallowing the brownie and then clearing his throat. Generally he thrives off being the center of attention, whether it means being the butt of the joke or simply telling it, but right now he just feels a bit foolish. Cheeks heating, he licks his lips and tries to own the sense of polite embarrassment he feels about being Garrett Hawke, sitting at this table, annoying his marvellous friends. “I feel a bit sad.”

 

Isabela narrows her eyes, while Merrill pushes the rest of the brownie towards him.

 

“Eat,” they say together.

 

Hawke picks up the fork.

 

oOo

 

Hawke spends the rest of the afternoon on his couch, eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon while alternating between naps and cartoons. At one point, he gets up to go to the bathroom, and when he comes back, Dog has stolen his seat. Hawke ends up putting his legs over her, using her body as a leg rest, and she happily goes to sleep while he watches TV.

 

Then Netflix stops working and Hawke is left with only naps as a possible pastime.

 

“Thank goodness you’re home,” calls Hawke urgently, when he hears Fenris get back from work. “Fenris! The thing isn’t working. Why is the thing not working.”

 

“If it’s your Netflix, you can give them a call, as is traditional in the world of technical support,” mutters Fenris, coming to stand by the couch where Hawke is sprawled. He’s tugging fiercely at his tie, white-shirted and black-trousered. Considering Fenris lives in leggings and over-sized hoodies when at home, it’s off-putting to see him dressed like he’s on his way to a funeral.

 

“But you know how to fix it,” says Hawke, pouting.

 

“I do that for eight hours a day, Hawke,” Fenris says flatly. “What makes you think I wish to continue when I get home?”

 

“We could do it over IM if that would make you feel better,” suggests Hawke helpfully. “I could craft a cunning persona to help you pretend I’m someone else. My name is Bryce, and I’m from upstate New York. No, I’m Nigel, originally from Bristol, recently relocated to—”

 

“Or you could IM someone who isn’t me about your network connectivity,” interrupts Fenris. He pulls off his tie and immediately undoes the first two buttons of his shirt. Hawke appreciates the glimpse of unknown tattoo designs creeping down Fenris’s chest. “I was thinking of ordering pizza.”

 

“You know what goes well with pizza?” asks Hawke. He doesn’t wait for Fenris to answer. “Netflix.”

 

Fenris’s mouth twitches. “Is it just Netflix that isn’t working? Have you checked the internet on your computer? Did you try rebooting your modem?”

 

“I’ll be honest with you,” says Hawke. “I haven’t tried anything that would involve getting up off the sofa.”

 

“What _have_ you done?” asks Fenris.

 

“I’ve glared a little,” says Hawke. “I turned the TV off and on. I restarted the PS4.”

 

“If you order the pizza, I’ll check the connection.” Fenris sighs.

 

“You’ve got a deal!” Hawke sits up and snags his phone off the coffee table. “Extra large, anchovies, black olives, and tomato?”

 

Fenris nods and picks up the PS4 controller, sitting down next to Dog. Hawke goes into the kitchen to make the call to the pizza place, and by the time he comes back, Fenris has fixed whatever was wrong with Hawke’s Netflix and is flicking through Hawke’s recently viewed selections. Dog has relocated her head to Fenris’s lap and he’s stroking her ears with his free hand.

 

“25 minutes until pizza,” announces Hawke triumphantly.

 

“Here,” says Fenris, passing Hawke the controller. “I’ll bill you later for my services.”

 

“I’ll make it up to you.” Hawke settles back down on the couch and gropes around for something they can do together that won’t necessarily read as a date. IKEA? A movie? The mall? “...I could take you to the fair!”

 

Fenris angles a suspicious, sidelong glance at Hawke. “...The fair?”

 

“The county fair!” clarifies Hawke. “Rickety death rides, funnel cakes, and terrible carnival games—what more could you want? It’s this coming weekend.”

 

“You want to take me to the fair?” Fenris seems so confused.

 

Gripped by panicked indecision, Hawke backpedals quickly and blurts, “Bethany and I go every year. She wouldn’t mind in the slightest if you tagged along with us. It’s fun! Usually there’s an alligator. Sometimes a man will wrestle it.”

 

“Well,” says Fenris, something like tension easing out of his shoulders. “How could I refuse?” He gets to his feet and says, “I’m going to shower before the pizza comes.”

 

The moment he’s safely out of sight, Hawke grabs his phone and texts Bethany.

 

 **hawke** : please tell me you’re not busy on saturday

 

 **bethyboo** : ...why? what have you done?

 

 **hawke** : you have to come with me and fenris to the county fair!!!

 **hawke** : this is dire, bethy

 **hawke** : this is so urgent

 

 **bethyboo** : why?? we haven’t gone to that in literal years

 

 **hawke** : yes well we haven’t gone in figurative ones either

 

 **bethyboo** : don’t be a pain!!

 **bethyboo** : i was going to study

 

 **hawke** : when AREN’T you studying

 **hawke** : i will make it up to you

 **hawke** : i will do anything you want

 **hawke** : PLEASE

 

 **bethyboo** : i want candy floss

 **bethyboo** : and i want to ride the ponies

 **bethyboo** : AND i want at least one stuffed animal

 

 **hawke** : you can have all that, and more

 

 **bethyboo** : and a caramel apple

 

 **hawke** : it’s a deal

 

 **bethyboo** : are you going to make moon eyes at him the whole time

 

 **hawke** : i can’t possibly imagine what you’re talking about

 **hawke** : i look upon fenris with myopic human eyes and a touch of astigmatism

 

 **bethyboo** : G A R R E T T

 **bethyboo** : SIGH

 **bethyboo** : i’m going now

 **bethyboo** : I have THINGS TO DO

 

Hawke sends her a string of kissy face emojis in parting. He doubts that when Isabela suggested he do something with Fenris she meant going to the county fair with his little sister.

 

He resolves not to tell her about it.

 

oOo

 

The following Saturday dawns stiflingly hot.

 

Hawke gets up far too early, drinks a truly incredible amount of caffeine, and picks up Bethany from her dorm with Fenris riding shotgun.

 

“You can put on a CD if you like,” Hawke says, turning the key in the ignition as Bethany buckles into the back. “There’s a whole pile of them in the glove box.”

 

“I can’t believe you still make them,” groans Bethany, leaning in between the front seats to peer at what Fenris is doing as he opens the glove box. “You’re the only person in the entire world that still burns CDs.”

 

Fenris pulls out a CD from the top of the pile. Hawke’s printed CARVER’S SUMMER MIX across it in black marker.

 

“Not that one,” says Hawke, glancing briefly at the CD as he pulls the car out of the student parking lot.

 

“Why not?” asks Fenris. He turns it over in his hands to read the track listing that Hawke has printed out. Hawke is sure that it _seems_ like a perfectly ordinary mix of popular angst-ridden singer-songwriters.

 

“Because Garrett is a troll,” says Bethany. “And that CD is not whatever the track list says it is. I think that one is actually Shake it Off, by Taylor Swift, repeated twenty times.”

 

“But he fell for it!” says Hawke.

 

“You actually edited the first track,” says Bethany, sounding faintly awed. “So it started off as that one song he really liked last summer, and then it just faded into Taylor Swift.”

 

“I learned how to use software for that,” says Hawke fondly.

 

“I’m amazed he didn’t just break the disc over the top of your head,” says Bethany. She pauses. “He tried every single track. Just hoping. Did you—”

 

“Yes,” says Hawke. “Yes, I emailed him. He was completely unsympathetic about the plague I contracted. And he didn’t want to hear about my truly magnificent levels of mucus production. Can you imagine?”

 

Hawke can see Bethany rolling her eyes in the rear view mirror. “How odd. Doesn’t he know you’re unparalleled in describing disgusting fluids?”

 

Next to him, Fenris closes the glove box. “Perhaps the radio would be a better choice,” he says mildly.

 

When Hawke turns on the radio, Taylor Swift comes pouring out of the speakers.

 

Hawke would laugh, but the song playing is I Knew You Were Trouble, and Hawke is immediately and rudely assaulted by the memory of himself crooning it at Bran.

 

“Change the station,” he says, voice only coming out a little strangled.

 

He’s so grateful that Fenris doesn’t question it.

 

oOo

 

By the time they get there, the sun is high in the sky and the humidity has become a physical thing, moisture thick in the air and clinging to bare skin as they get out of the car.

 

“Now I remember why we stopped coming,” mumbles Bethany, pulling a giant sunhat out of the car and plopping it on her head.

 

Fenris slides a pair of sunglasses onto his nose and looks at Hawke. It’s as accusing as an expression can get with his face half-hidden by mirrored aviators. “You said you come every year,” he tells him flatly.

 

“I did, didn’t I,” says Hawke, resignedly surveying the dusty parking lot with his hands planted on his hips. “It’s not an entirely inaccurate statement. Perhaps just not… in recent years.”

 

“If I’m going to survive this heat, I need ice cream, immediately,” says Bethany. “Oh, listen. I can already hear the screams of children.”

 

Hawke is relieved he had enough cognizance when he woke at noon to dress for the liquid heat of Satan’s sweating arsehole. The only shorts he could find pre-coffee were jean cut offs, but he doesn’t think the pink tank top he found on the floor is too bad. Bethany isn’t inching away from him in disgust, anyway.

 

“Why is Florida,” whispers Hawke. “Why. Why did our mother come here.”

 

“Oh, I need sunscreen!” cries Bethany. “It’s in the car. I’ll only be a minute.”

 

She turns back to return to the car and Hawke wiggles his toes in his flip flops and watches Fenris visibly wilt under the oppressive barometric pressure.

 

“Don’t worry,” says Hawke bracingly. “It’s even hotter in the fairground.”

 

Fenris fixes his unreadable, bug-eyed stare on Hawke. “Thank you. That’s reassuring. I was hoping there was a chance this could get worse.”

 

Hawke grins. “That’s the spirit!”

 

oOo

 

Hawke pays for everyone’s admittance largely out of guilt and vague date-like intentions towards Fenris. Bethany, on the other hand, doesn’t even pretend to try to pay for her own ticket; she’s a little sister and she knows how things work.

 

The fairground borders a swamp, because… of course it does. It’s Florida. There’s a reptile zoo nearby, which is where the alligator and the man that wrestles him come from, and the rest of the fair takes up a large field surrounded by palm trees.

 

Walking through the gates, Hawke is enveloped by the aroma of sweat and funnel cakes. People jostle them, children run by screaming and toting balloons, and the dirt rising up from the ground sticks to their damp skin.

 

“What should we do first?” asks Hawke.

 

Bethany holds up her hand and ticks off fingers. “Candy floss. Ponies. Stuffed animal. Caramel apple.”

 

Fenris shrugs. “Alligators?”

 

“Fenris hasn’t seen an alligator,” says Hawke. “We have to introduce him.”

 

“Not personally,” says Fenris quickly.

 

“Are you telling me you don’t want to pet an alligator?”

 

Fenris purses his lips, his mouth a thin line. “Not particularly.”

 

Hawke exchanges a glance with Bethany. “Not even a baby?”

 

“They’re quite sweet,” says Bethany. “Like scaly kittens.”

 

Fenris makes a humming noise, neither agreement or disagreement, and finally says, “I would like to see them. I’m unsure about whether I’m interested in touching one.”

 

“The reptile show it is,” says Hawke, clapping his hands together. “With a stop on the way for ice cream.”

 

oOo

 

Hawke realises, as he’s paying for three ice cream cones, that this outing is going to dent his wallet considerably, but Bethany kisses his cheek, and Fenris thanks him after Hawke insists it’s his treat, and they slowly make their way through the crowds.

 

The three of them devour their ice creams before entering the area set up for the reptile show. Inside there are baby alligators, and fully grown ones as well, along with tanks of smaller animals like snapping turtles, lizards, and one fat, motionless tarantula hiding in the corner of its cool, dark enclosure.

 

“Ooh,” says Bethany, leaning in to peer at an aquarium full of geckos. “They’re so cute. Fenris, do you like these?”

 

“Yes,” says Fenris. “I…” He pauses. “Varania has one, as a pet. It was mine, but…”

 

“I suppose it was difficult to take it with you,” offers Hawke. “When you moved.”

 

Fenris nods and doesn’t provide additional details, but Bethany has already moved on, approaching the tank full of baby alligators, surrounded by people cautiously holding and stroking them under the supervision of a zoo employee.

 

“They’re not dangerous,” says Bethany to Fenris. “They tape up their mouths. Their bellies are soft.”

 

Fenris pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and narrows his eyes at the handful of babies floating lazily in the water tank. Despite his extremely reluctant body language, the reptile handler spots him eyeing the animals warily, says, “Wanna hold a baby gator?” and grabs one from the tank, then shoves it into Fenris’s hands before he can raise a protest.

 

Confronted with a wide-eyed Fenris standing rigidly with his hands clamped around a small alligator’s chest, dripping water all over his feet, Hawke does the only thing a reasonable person _can_ do; he pulls out his phone and snaps several quick photos.

 

“Oh, oh, me too!” calls Bethany. She ducks in next to Fenris and grins, so Hawke takes another handful of photos.

 

Fenris seems rooted to the spot. He hasn’t let go, at least, and he doesn’t look like he’s just discovered a phobia he wasn’t previously aware of. He’s just… frozen, shoulders tense, and his green eyes haven’t left the baby gator’s pointy little head.

 

“Fenris,” says Hawke, putting away his phone. “Do you require an intervention?”

 

“No,” says Fenris. “I am fine.”

 

“You haven’t moved,” points out Bethany. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

 

Fenris clears his throat and lifts his arms just a little, apparently staring down the alligator in its yellow little eyes. “I was just surprised.”

 

“I can hold it,” says Bethany. “If you want to see how the scales feels.”

 

Fenris hesitates, communing silently with the baby gator. Then he passes it to Bethany, who croons softly at it and calls it lovely as she cups her hands around its body. Freed from responsibility, Fenris relaxes a little, reaching out to cautiously stroke the gator’s belly.

 

“Well, now you can tick ‘hold an alligator’ off your bucket list,” says Hawke. “What an eventful diary entry.”

 

Fenris smiles, tickling the baby gator’s belly one last time before Bethany returns it to the handler.

 

“The wrestling bit isn’t for another hour,” says Hawke. “What shall we do until then? Ferris wheel? Bumper cars? ”

 

“I’m going to go ride the ponies,” says Bethany. “Why don’t you two go on the Ferris wheel?”

 

Hawke stares meaningfully at Bethany. She stares right back and shrugs at him.

 

Fenris says, “I am allergic to ponies. Horses. The Ferris wheel would be… preferable, perhaps.”

 

Hawke wants to ask how one discovers an allergy to horses. Did Fenris used to ride? Before or after the accident? He briefly pictures Fenris in riding boots and his eyes glaze over.

 

“Hawke?”

 

“Ferris wheel it is,” says Hawke quickly. “You’ll love it. There’s a great view of the entire fairground. Haven’t you always wanted to see a humid swamp from above? You’d hardly see that in Seattle. What a stunning vista.”

 

“I look forward to it,” says Fenris dryly.

 

oOo

 

Hawke’s so distracted by searching for Bethany that he doesn’t notice it right away. The slow climb has been interrupted by pauses as other people board their cars, so when they finally crest the top and come to a brief stop, Hawke cranes over the lap bar to scan the field for the pony paddock. The shift of his weight rocks the car a little, and that’s when Fenris darts his hand out like a viper and clamps it around Hawke’s wrist.

 

“I’m just looking for Bethany,” says Hawke. “Do you see the—”

 

He turns, then, to actually look at Fenris. “...Well, shit.”

 

“It’s fine,” says Fenris, his voice strained.

 

“It doesn’t look fine at all,” says Hawke. “But your definition of ‘fine’ definitely seems to differ significantly from mine.

 

Fenris has gone white. In a valiant effort to block out reality and pretend this isn’t happening, he’s squeezed his eyes shut, body stiff and rigid as he leans back in his seat, distancing himself from the lap bar as much as is physically possible. With one hand gripping the bar and the other applying steady pressure to Hawke’s wrist, he’s anchored himself as securely as he can, but when the car starts moving again, rocking as they begin the descent, Fenris makes a tiny, unhappy noise and digs his fingernails into Hawke’s flesh.

 

Evidently, Fenris does not like heights.

 

“Why didn’t you say something?” says Hawke anxiously. He is not, by nature, an anxious person, but in this moment, as anxiety and fear rolls off Fenris in palpable waves, Hawke’s heartbeat picks up and the prickle of cool, clammy fingers spreads down his spine. “You said the Ferris wheel was preferable. Are you _deathly_ allergic to horses? Is a paralyzing fear of heights only preferable to anaphylactic shock?!”

 

“Hawke,” croaks Fenris. “I—”

 

“It wasn’t one or the other as the only possible choices! Horses and heights are not mutually exclusive. We could have just sat quietly on a bench!” Hawke wraps his other hand gently around the iron fist Fenris has melded to his wrist and gives it a squeeze; Fenris lets go instantly and Hawke presses both his hands around Fenris’s trembling fingers. “Why—”

 

“I didn’t know,” Fenris grits out through his teeth.

 

“What?” says Hawke dumbly, rubbing fretfully at Fenris’s knuckles.

 

Fenris breathes in sharply through his nose. “ _I didn’t know_.”

 

“You didn’t know you’re afraid of heights,” Hawke whispers in horrified realisation, after a brutally long pause.

 

They’ve almost reached the bottom again but Hawke doesn’t know if telling Fenris will help or just make things worse; they can’t exactly just leap out of the car and they’re going to go back up three more times before the ride is over.

 

“Do you want me to call out to the attendant?” he asks. “Maybe he can stop the—”

 

“No!” yelps Fenris. He opens his eyes, then, gaze bouncing around like a pinball before settling, panicked, on Hawke’s face. “No, don’t. I don’t want to ruin—it’s _fine_ , Hawke!”

 

Hawke has no idea why Fenris is trying to convince him when Fenris himself isn’t convinced. “We’re still pretending it’s fine, then, are we? All right. There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening right now. We’re two people, enjoying a perfectly calm and rational theme park ride. Please don’t leap out or anything.”

 

Fenris nods, helpless and grateful, though he’s beginning to look a little green and queasy around the edges.

 

They pass the loading area and begin to rise, moving backwards again, and Hawke sees Fenris’s gaze drift down as the ground falls away beneath them, so he gives Fenris’s hand another squeeze and says, “Hey, no, don’t look down. Look at me. Just focus on me and don’t look down.”

 

What he’s not expecting is for Fenris to actually listen; he angles his body sideways, fixing wide green eyes on Hawke’s face as they reach the top again, and suddenly Hawke can’t breathe. Fenris is overwhelmingly beautiful up close like this, the blunt slope of his nose wrinkling just a little as he tries to keep his focus off where they are.

 

Hawke is staring, but so is Fenris. They just stare at each other, Hawke’s brain going into overdrive as he catalogues the dark scrunch of Fenris’s eyebrows, the way his hair falls continually and insistently into his eyes, the delicate curl of white ink tracing paths down his chin to weave down his throat.

 

For several long, agonizing minutes, Hawke gets stuck just staring at the stubborn pout of Fenris’s mouth, all thought halted by the way his lips shape Hawke’s name.

 

“...Yes?” says Hawke belatedly, blinking in surprise and focusing with difficulty on Fenris’s whole face instead of just his lips.

 

He realises, then, that Fenris is also staring at Hawke’s mouth. He looks up when Hawke does, swallowing hard and letting out a shuddering breath. “Hawke. You can… you can let go.”

 

“Oh,” says Hawke. Dragging himself back into the appropriate reality, one that doesn’t just involve inhabiting this pod forever with Fenris, takes some effort, and Hawke realises they’re coming back down, and the car is stopping to free them. The lap bar lifts up, but Hawke doesn’t let go of Fenris’s hand just yet. He waits for him to stand, first, other hand braced on the bar, and then Hawke gets up too, and once he’s satisfied Fenris isn’t going to fall over, Hawke lets their hands untangle.

 

Fenris stumbles a little, as they get down, Hawke catching his elbow to steady him, and soon they’re standing safely in the grass, Fenris trembling visibly as he takes big, steadying breaths.

 

Then he says, “I am going to vomit,” and he turns and throws up into a trash can.

 

“Better out than in,” says Hawke, reaching out to rub Fenris’s back as he retches. “At least, that’s what my dad always used to say. Come on, love. Let's go get you cleaned up.”

 

oOo

 

Due to a complete lack of proper restroom facilities and no running water, Hawke ends up retrieving wet wipes from the car, and he leaves Fenris on a bench with them to wipe his face and mouth before going to buy a bottle of water for him. He texts Bethany while standing in line, because she hasn’t found them yet and he’s not sure if she’s disappeared into some sort of horse wonderland where time has lost all meaning.

 

 **hawke** : there was a mishap

 

 **bethyboo** : i am literally ON A HORSE garrett please tell me no one is bleeding

 

 **hawke** : no

 **hawke** : no blood

 **hawke** : just……vomit

 

 **bethyboo** : you or fenris???? if it’s you i’m less concerned

 

 **hawke** : fenris

 **hawke** : :(

 

 **bethyboo** : oh my god

 **bethyboo** : what did you do!

 

 **hawke** : i didn’t do anything!!!!!  
**hawke** : he did not know he was afraid of heights

 

 **bethyboo** : i….

 **bethyboo** : shit okay where are you? should I come?  
  
**hawke** : near the strongman thing

 **hawke** : sitting on a bench

 **hawke** : i’m getting water for him

 

 **bethyboo** : proper knight in shining armour you are

 

 **hawke** : i know i should be focusing on how awful i could tell he was feeling

 **hawke** : and i’m so sorry it happened

 **hawke** : but we also had A Moment

 **hawke** : and held hands

 

 **bethyboo** : ohhh my godddddddddd

 **bethyboo** : you’re right you are awful

 **bethyboo** : i hope he threw up on your shoes a little

 

 **hawke** : he didn’t

 **hawke** : but i may have said ‘better out than in’ as he was throwing up

 

 **bethyboo** : WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT

 **bethyboo** : IN WHAT UNIVERSE

 **bethyboo** : dad would probably be proud

 **bethyboo** : ugh

 **bethyboo** : i’m coming, i am LEAVING THE PONIES for you

 

Hawke pays _five whole dollars_ for water, which goes against every fibre of Hawke’s being, but it’s his own fault for not thinking to bring any along. He gives it to Fenris, who has wilted on his bench like a dead flower, elbows propped on his knees as though the weight of his head is impossible to manage.

 

“Here you go,” says Hawke, dropping down next to him. “Drink that.”

 

“Thank you,” says Fenris, his voice raspy, but he doesn’t make a move to lift his head.

 

“You took an airplane to get here, didn’t you?” asks Hawke gently. “You were okay doing that?”

 

“I… don’t recall,” mumbles Fenris. “I was drunk before I boarded. And I was in the middle seat, I couldn’t see out any of the windows. I fell asleep thirty minutes into the flight and woke up after we landed.”

 

“Ah,” says Hawke, opening the water bottle and holding it out, because he is a helpful person. “That would explain that, then.”

 

Fenris takes the bottle and washes out his mouth first, spitting into the dirt, before taking a long drink. His colour is a little better and the tremor in his hands and body is not as pronounced. “I am sorry,” he says quietly, after he’s had another drink of water.

 

“For what?” asks Hawke, bewildered. “How were you to know what would happen? Don’t be silly. I’m the one that’s sorry. I’m composing your inevitable diary entry in my head, would you like to hear it?”

 

“Go on,” says Fenris, mouth curving into an expectant smirk.

 

“‘Dear diary,’” begins Hawke, doing his best Fenris impression, complete with accompanying facial expression. “‘Today I went to the fair with Hawke and Bethany. After roasting in the sun and sweating buckets, I unwillingly touched an alligator and discovered my previously unknown fear of heights. Then I puked in the trash and regretted ever agreeing to go at all. Yours, Fenris.’”

 

“Hmm,” murmurs Fenris. “Solid effort. 7 out of 10.”

 

“Where did I lose points?” asks Hawke. “Was it the scowl? I’ve been practicing in the mirror.”

 

“No,” says Fenris. “It was not the delivery. I am deducting points for inaccuracy of content. I do not regret agreeing to come.”

 

“I question your judgement sometimes,” says Hawke, an uncontrollable smile spreading over his face. “I really do. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve been on a date that ended in vomit, but…”

 

Hawke trails off because Fenris is staring at him, eyebrows raised impressively high, and he’s about to ask what the problem is when Bethany appears from the crowd, calling, “Garrett! Fenris!”

 

She throws herself onto the bench on Fenris’s other side and immediately puts her arms around him in a hug. “Are you all right? What happened?”

 

Hawke opens his mouth to loudly point out he already _told_ her what happened, but Bethany meets his gaze over Fenris’s shoulder and _glowers_ at him, the surest ‘shut up right now’ expression he’s ever been the target of.

 

“The heat, I think,” says Fenris after a relieved pause, and Hawke realises he is, once again, an idiot, and Fenris has not told anyone but Hawke about his memory loss. Bethany is giving Fenris a chance to make up whatever excuse he likes. “I got dizzy at the top. I hope I did not interrupt.”

 

“I had two rides before Garrett texted me,” says Bethany, releasing him from the hug and patting his shoulder reassuringly. “I was getting too hot, anyway. We can go home, if you like?”

 

“That is not necessary,” says Fenris, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

 

“The alligator wrestling is starting in five minutes,” says Hawke, checking his phone. “Which has the added bonus of happening on solid ground.”

 

“I would like to see that,” agrees Fenris.

 

“Candy floss on the way!” says Bethany, jumping to her feet. “Then you’re winning me a stuffed animal!”

 

oOo

 

The next hour is blessedly devoid of physical sickness or newly rediscovered phobias. They bear witness to man in khaki shorts putting a six foot long alligator in a headlock while getting candy floss all over their faces, and Hawke buys a small angry alligator keychain to send to Carver.

 

Then, as they’re walking the fairground, searching for caramel apples or fried pickles, Bethany stops so sharply in front of a prize stand piled with stuffed animals that Fenris walks right into her.

 

“I want that owl,” she hisses, pointing skyward. “Garrett. This is it. This is the Holy Grail of plush toys.”

 

Hawke looks up, shading his eyes from the sun. “With the tufty ears?”

 

“They’re not ears,” chides Bethany. “Birds don’t have external ears.”

 

“Well, they look like ears,” says Hawke.

 

“They are feathers,” says Fenris. “It’s a great horned owl.”

 

“Thank you, Discovery Channel,” says Hawke, looking around. “Okay. What’s the game?”

 

Bethany slaps him hard on the back. “Ooooh, it’s a dunk tank! Garrett, this will be so easy!”

 

Hawke preens a little, flexing his right arm and patting his bicep. “It seems my semester playing college softball will finally pay off.”

 

“You played college softball?” asks Fenris.

 

“I filled in as pitcher, when a friend got injured,” shrugs Hawke. “I’m rubbish at batting, but I can throw okay.”

 

“That owl is as good as mine,” whispers Bethany, her eyes wide and gleeful. She pulls out her phone and starts madly texting.

 

“This is far too much pressure,” says Hawke. “This is bound to blow up in my face, now. I’ll miss the target, hit something flammable, and light the the entire fair on fire.”

 

“You have a very active imagination,” says Fenris.

 

“I try,” says Hawke. He nods firmly. “Right. Let’s do this. Bethany needs that owl.”

 

“You get three balls for three dollars,” calls out the girl attending the booth. “If you hit the target once, you win one of the small prizes. Hit twice, you get one of the big ones. Hit three times, you get one of each!”

 

She gives Hawke the balls, which he immediately realises are too light to trigger the release on the dunk tank. He’ll have to hit dead center, with a lot of force, to dump the young man sitting mournfully on the plastic seat over the tepid tank of water.

 

“Chin up,” calls Hawke, rolling the first ball into his palm. “There _could_ be alligators inside.”

 

Bethany groans. “I’ll bet he hasn’t heard that before, ever.”

 

“That’s hilarious, sir,” says the kid miserably. “I sure hope I don’t—”

 

Hawke’s already wound up his pitch and let the first ball go before he finishes speaking; time slows, the kid’s eyes widening as he realises this isn’t going to be the usual series of sad, directionless throws that fall short of the target.

 

The ball hits the red circle with a loud, echoing _thwack_ , and the kid plummets into the tank.

 

Bethany shrieks, throwing up her hands.

 

The attendant yells, “AW HELL, MISTER, THAT WAS _GOOD_ ,” and then thumps on the side of the tank. “C’mon, Marty! He’s got two more balls!”

 

Marty climbs sullenly out of the water and resets the tank, settling himself on the seat again, expression appropriately woeful. “That was a good one, sir,” he offers reluctantly.

 

“I’m just warming up,” says Hawke cheerfully, straightening his spine and winding up for his next pitch.

 

This time, Marty just hits the water with a resigned splash.

 

Next to Hawke, Fenris looks surprised.

 

“What, you didn’t believe me?” asks Hawke, waiting for his final throw as Marty drags himself back out of the water.

 

“I… assumed it was difficult to win these sorts of games, despite possessing any natural talent,” says Fenris mildly.

 

“You think I have natural talent!” crows Hawke. He’s already won the prize for Bethany, but if he lands a third hit, he gets two prizes. Hawke’s priorities shift very abruptly; he has to win this, so that he can choose a prize to give to Fenris, too.

 

“Oh, don’t encourage him, Fenris,” chides Bethany. “Now he’ll just flex his arms at you for the rest of the summer.”

 

“I lift weights,” Hawke says proudly.

 

“When was the last time you actually went to the gym?” demands Bethany.

 

“Erm,” says Hawke, throwing the last ball from hand to hand. “I may have let things slip a little when I got sick.”

 

“Even before that,” pipes up Fenris helpfully. “I have never seen you go to gym.”

 

“Thanks, traitor,” says Hawke. “Okay, so perhaps I haven’t visited the gym since Fenris moved in. I’ve been distracted.”

 

“Distracted,” echoes Bethany, laughing. She sounds a bit strained.

 

“Look at poor Marty, waiting patiently for his final dunk,” says Hawke. “I’m distracted _now_. Come on now, step back, you two. Give me a bit of room to breathe.”

 

Bethany throws her hands up and steps back, laughing, while Fenris rolls his eyes. “I do beg your pardon,” he drawls, taking several exaggerated steps back. “Allow me. I would hate to crowd you in your moment of glory.”

 

Hawke is actually, properly nervous, now. He’s made such a big deal of this that he might cry a little if he loses. Fenris will never know what he intended to do with the second prize, but _Hawke_ will.  

 

“Take a deep breath, Marty,” calls Hawke, as he winds up his swing. “I’m going for a hat trick!”

 

Marty makes a face, just as Hawke releases the ball. He knows it’s a perfect pitch the second it leaves his fingers, and Marty’s resounding splash is celebrated with noisy cheers and applause from Bethany and the girl attending the booth.

 

Hawke throws up his arms and whoops. Turning to Fenris, he holds out his palm out for a high five, which Fenris has to jump to meet.

 

“We’ll take the dignified owl with the ears,” says Hawke to the attendant, watching Marty wring out his sopping shirt onto the muddy grass out of the corner of his eye.

 

“You get a big one, too,” says the attendant. “I can’t remember the last time somebody hit all three before.”

 

Hawke looks up to where she’s pointing, at the over-sized plushes resting on the canopy over the rest of the wall of prizes. There’s four or five different kinds of animals, all body pillow size.

 

“The dog,” he says instantly.

 

“It looks a bit like our Dog,” says Bethany. “Somehow I am unsurprised by your selection.”

 

The attendant gets the owl for Bethany and then retrieves the big fluffy dog for Hawke, handing it over with a grin. “Thanks for playing,” she says. “Enjoy the rest of the fair.”

 

Hawke gives the dog a big hug before turning to Fenris and holding the huge plush out to him. “Here you go, Fenris. It’s for you.”

 

Fenris blinks, looking from the proffered plush to Hawke. He raises his eyebrows and asks “For me?”

 

“A present,” says Hawke. He rubs fretfully at the back of his head, giving Fenris a sheepish grin. “You _did_ get sick on the Ferris wheel. To make up for… that.”

 

Fenris hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around the dog’s midsection and hugging it close to his chest. “Hmm,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a tiny grin. “A dog is a big responsibility.”

 

Hawke laughs, delighted. “You’ll have to think of a name.”

 

“Don’t rush me, Hawke,” Fenris chides him. “You have no experience in this. You didn’t even name your _actual dog_.”

 

“I did,” protests Hawke. “It just so happens that her name is who and what she is at the same time.”

 

Fenris rolls his eyes. “I will have to give it serious thought.” He adjusts his grip on the toy, hitching it higher in his arms to avoid dragging it on the ground. “I…” It could just be sunburn, but Hawke almost swears Fenris is blushing as he directs his gaze at the ground and clears his throat primly. “Thank you, Hawke.”

 

“Yes, thank you, Garrett,” says Bethany sweetly, rising up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You were very competent, just then.”

 

“Glowing praise from my baby sister,” says Hawke. “You’re both very welcome. I have a limited repertoire of marketable skills, so you’re just lucky the game didn’t involve any higher learning or critical thinking. Should you ever require something thrown accurately, with plenty of force, remember that I’m your man.”

 

“I will keep it in mind,” says Fenris lightly.

 

It’s difficult to follow such an epic win with anything remotely as exciting, especially in the relentless heat, so after another round of inadvisable carnival food, they head home, dropping Bethany off first at her dorm.

 

By this point in the day, Hawke is running on about four hours sleep and possible heat stroke, so all he has to do when he gets home is sit down on the couch before he just passes out.

 

Jerking awake several hours later, confused and disoriented, Hawke forgets he’s not in a bed and rolls right off the couch and onto the floor. Hawke briefly considers remaining there, becoming one with the floor, and never getting up again. Then he realises he has to pee, and it all falls apart.

 

Fenris’s bedroom door is open.

 

It’s not like Hawke is snooping, per se. It’s just on his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t _snoop_. He’d never snoop. He does nearly trip over Dog, who is inexplicably lying on the floor with only her back half in the hallway and the rest of her body in Fenris’s room, only just bracing himself with both hands on the door frame to avoid a headfirst plunge into the floor.

 

Fenris doesn’t notice Hawke, anyway, because Fenris has fallen asleep in bed, stretched out on his back with his laptop balanced on his belly. He’s snoring softly, mouth hanging open as his head dips forward, chin practically on his chest.

 

Resting at the head of the bed is the carnival prize plush dog. Fenris is sleeping on it. Fenris is using it as a pillow.

 

Hawke has to slap both hands over his face to keep from making any pained sounds.

 

Then he slowly sinks down to join Dog on the floor, where he belongs, and buries his face in her fur.

 

Fuck it all.

 

He is so completely in love with Fenris.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hawke and fenris get caught in the rain

Hawke spends the entirety of Sunday in bed, alternately sleeping and watching cartoons on his phone. When he emerges in the late afternoon, hunger and a dead battery driving him into the kitchen in search of food, he finds Fenris sitting on the floor with Dog.

 

The plush dog is, once again, in attendance as well, Fenris using it as a backrest against the wall. Dog is sprawled across his legs and Fenris has propped a book on her body and is reading.

 

Hawke stands in the doorway in his pyjamas and scratches at his lank hair, watching Fenris turn pages and idly stroke Dog’s ears.

 

“Your legs must be dead asleep,” he says finally.

 

Fenris startles a little, raising his eyes from the book to look up at Hawke. “They are,” he admits. “I… did not want to disturb her.”

 

“Do I even want to ask what you’re doing there instead of reading somewhere comfortable?” Hawke heads to the coffee machine and pops the top, pulling out the old filter.

 

“The living room is too hot,” says Fenris. “My bedroom is too hot. This is the coolest spot in the apartment.”

 

“Despite the enormous furry blanket currently destroying your legs,” says Hawke. “You spoil her.”

 

Fenris huffs. “No more than you do.”

 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you slipping her treats just for existing.” Hawke is only teasing, but Fenris looks properly scandalized, his mouth turning down at the corners.

 

“She is a good dog,” he says defensively.

 

Hawke grins as he puts a new filter into the coffee maker. “Any thoughts on what you’re going to call _your_ new friend?”

 

“I have named him... Mr. Scribbles,” Fenris says solemnly.

 

Hawke turns around. “That’s _adorable_.”

 

Fenris flushes and scowls at Hawke. “It is perfectly dignified.”

 

“Sure,” says Hawke reassuringly. “Very evocative. Coffee?”

 

“Thank you,” says Fenris, sighing. “Yes.”

 

oOo

 

When Hawke gets to work on Monday night and checks his phone, he finds a text from Bran, the first message from him since Bran moved to Los Angeles.

 

 **bran** : i miss your stupid face x

 

Hawke just looks at his phone for a minute or two, tugging out his earbuds and leaning on his locker as he tries to work out how he feels.

 

Okay, he decides finally. He feels okay. He does miss Bran. He probably always will.

 

 **hawke** : you too x

 

 **bran** : my face is delightful, thank you

 

 **hawke** : your face is judgemental

 **hawke** : you exude scorn

 

 **bran** : that’s what makes it so delightful

 

 **hawke** : your definition of delight is very different from the rest of the world’s

 

 **bran** : that is the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me

 

 **hawke** : you /would/ take that as a compliment

 

 **bran** : stop being so nice to me

 

They text until it’s time for Hawke to start work, and it’s fine. They don’t mention sex, or relationships. Bran asks after Bethany and Carver, and Hawke asks about the new job, and that’s it. Weirdly friendly content, comfortingly antagonistic tone, and only a little awkward overall.

 

It’s a slow night at work.

 

Hawke completes all his tasks before his lunch break, then spends a half hour working on his high score in Tetris while Anders sleeps on the couch and mutters under his breath about cats. After that, he answers a call, cleans up a spill, and wheels several carts of clean linen into the elevator and up to the fourth floor as a favour to the laundry attendant.  

 

When he gets out of work at six, he checks his phone and finds an email from Carver. He’s forwarded Hawke a travel itinerary for later that month.

 

“Oh shit,” he says.

 

“What?” asks Anders, shutting his locker and shouldering his bag.

 

“The twins,” says Hawke. “It’s their birthday on the 28th. Carver is coming for the weekend. I completely forgot.”

 

“What kind of brother are you?” asks Anders. “Didn’t you practically raise them?”

 

“Not exactly,” says Hawke. “But close enough. They’re turning 20. This is appalling. I am appalled. This is the end of their teen years. I need a hug, Anders. I need a hug, right now.”

 

“Is this really required of me?” asks Anders, sighing.

 

“You don’t understand,” says Hawke. “I am traumatized by this realisation.”

 

“Let it be known, Garrett, that you are a giant baby,” says Anders, opening his arms. “Frankly, you are nothing more than an enormous child. Come here.”

 

Hawke steps into the embrace and wraps his arms around Anders, hunching to bury his face against his shoulder. “And you’re a softie.”

 

Anders sighs and pats Hawke on the back. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re lucky I’m so indulgent when it comes to your sad, stupid face.”

 

“Your hair smells nice.”

 

“ _Hawke_.”

 

Hawke releases him and steps back. “Thank you. I feel a bit better about the relentless march of time.”

 

Anders squints at him. “One day, I’d like to work with you and not have to live through yet another existential crisis.”

 

“This is not an existential crisis. I am secure in the knowledge that I exist and my place in the  universe is to irritate you every chance I get, but that’s a nice dream to have,” says Hawke. “I wish you luck with it. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

 

oOo

 

Hawke gets home at half past six. He dumps his clothes in the hamper, puts on a load of laundry, takes a quick shower, pops out his contacts and puts on his glasses, and eats cold spaghetti and meatballs directly out of a Tupperware container while standing over the sink.

 

Just before eight, Dog wanders sleepily into the kitchen and headbutts him in the hip, a sure sign that Bethany hasn’t been by to walk her today.

 

Putting the Tupperware in the sink, Hawke gets down on his knees and ruffles Dog’s ears, hugging her enormous head and blowing a raspberry on her snout. She licks his entire face in retaliation.

 

“How about some walkies?” croons Hawke, kissing her muzzle. “Do you want to go to the park?”

 

Dog licks him again, her tail wagging so hard it rhythmically thumps the ground, backside swinging back and forth with the force of her excitement. She boofs softly and Hawke gives her a shove until she rolls over and he can rub her belly.

 

“Walkies? Do you like walkies?” he rambles, stretching out on the kitchen floor to scrub both hands into her thick fur. “My darling, my child.”

 

“That you birthed yourself, undoubtedly,” says Fenris.

 

Hawke startles with a yelp and then Dog dislodges him to get up and go to Fenris, who is standing in the doorway of the kitchen in a pair of loud orange shorts and a black t-shirt. Fenris reaches out to stroke her, but she dodges his hands and rises like Godzilla emerging from the ocean to barrel into him with giant paws on his narrow shoulders, knocking him right onto his arse.

 

“Oof!” grunts Fenris, disappearing almost entirely under her bulk as she sends them both crashing down to the floor.

 

“Sorry!” says Hawke, scrambling up to grab her collar and pull her off Fenris. “Sorry, she needs a walk. I was just about to take her.”

 

Fenris sits up, wiping saliva off his face. He doesn’t look annoyed, just bewildered, which is a bonus. “I can see the family resemblance,” he says dryly.

 

“Har har,” says Hawke. “Go get your leash,” he says to Dog. “Come on. Walkies!”

 

Dog barks once and scrabbles out of the kitchen. Hawke holds out a hand to Fenris and helps him back to his feet.

 

“Why are you up so early again?” asks Hawke. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No.” Fenris goes to the sink and washes dog drool off his hands and face. “I fell asleep after you went to work last night.” He grabs a paper towel to dry off and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m just awake, now.”

 

“Fancy a walk, then?”

 

Fenris turns to look out the kitchen window, considering the question. Hawke busies himself with washing his own hands off and catches Fenris watching him out of the corner of his eye before Fenris finally says, “Let me go get dressed.”

 

Hawke is a huge fan of Fenris’s version of ‘getting dressed’. It usually involves leggings and some sort of sweatshirt, with or without hood. He never, ever wears socks and does his level best to avoid wearing closed shoes. Hawke is unsurprised when Fenris meets him by the door a few minutes later wearing flip flops, long polyester shorts, and one of Hawke’s old hoodies that was re-appropriated several weeks ago when Hawke realised it didn’t fit him anymore. His fashion sense is nonexistent.

 

“You’re like a tiny varsity basketball player,” says Hawke, “that’s going on a beach holiday.”

 

Fenris drags a hand down his face and then rubs his eyes, sighing. “I am not tiny, Hawke. You are frustratingly tall.”

 

“ _Dog_ is taller than you,” says Hawke. Dog sits up in attention at the sound of her name, barking once. “See? She agrees.”

 

Fenris stares him, eyes narrowed. “Shall we?”

 

They end up taking Dog for a long walk around the park, before finding a bench and removing her leash to play fetch. Sitting side by side in amiable silence, they take turns throwing the ball for her.  

 

“Do you mind if my brother stays with us for a couple of nights at the end of the month?” Hawke asks, abruptly remembering Carver’s email. “It’s his and Bethany’s birthday.”

 

Fenris shrugs. “It’s your apartment, Hawke.”

 

“You live there too,” Hawke points out. “You don’t know him and he can be a bit… abrasive. He could always stay with Bethany instead.”

 

“Bethany lives in a dorm.”

 

“He can sleep on the floor. He’s done it before,” shrugs Hawke.

 

“I do not mind,” Fenris says firmly. “Your brother doesn’t have to sleep on the floor.”

 

“I’ll probably let him sleep in my room and take the couch myself,” says Hawke. “It pulls out anyway and then he won’t be underfoot. You’re allowed to have guests too, you know. If you wanted.”

 

Next to him, practically shoulder to shoulder, Fenris tenses. “That is… unnecessary.”

 

Hawke doesn’t push it. “Anyway, we’re going to drive to Orlando for the day to celebrate. The twins usually like to pick a restaurant at Universal or Downtown Disney for their birthday dinner. You’re welcome to come.”

 

Fenris doesn’t accept or decline the invitation, sitting quietly as they watch Dog retrieve the ball that Hawke just threw. Then he clears his throat and says, “May I ask a personal question?”

 

“You can ask me anything you wish,” says Hawke promptly. “I have very little shame, Fenris.”

 

“Mm,” murmurs Fenris, and Hawke thinks normally he would laugh, so evidently this is a serious question. Then Fenris asks, “Where is your mother?” and Hawke understands his reticence.

 

“Oh,” he says. “Well, she’s dead. I suppose I’ve never… we talked about my father, and everyone else just _knows_. She passed away in my first year of college. It was very unexpected.”

 

“I am sorry, Hawke,” says Fenris, turning to meet his gaze, and it’s almost unbearable, how sympathetic the look on his face is. Hawke can barely stand to look at Fenris head on when he _isn’t_ directing all his compassion right at Hawke; he actually has to take a shaky breath and look away before his eyes well with tears.

 

“I dropped out of college,” explains Hawke. “To take care of the twins. Dad had only just died a few years before, and… for a year or so I developed this intense focus. I was utterly devoted to being the perfect responsible machine. A friend of mother’s helped me get custody of the twins, I took night classes to get my certification, and I got the job at the care home. It was a brilliant stroke of luck, something finally going right.”

 

“Bethany said….” Fenris sounds uncertain whether he should contribute, but Hawke looks at him and nods encouragingly, and he adds, “She said you would work nights, get home in time to wake them up and feed them and bring them to school, and then you’d sleep until it was time to pick them up again.”

 

“Then dinner, homework, bedtime, and I’d go off to work again,” finishes Hawke, nodding. “We had another dog, then, which made me feel better about leaving the twins home alone. They were good, though. And Aveline used to check in on them, she was an absolute godsend. I...” Hawke trails off, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and laughs nervously. “You don’t need to hear all this.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” says Fenris hurriedly. “But… I do not mind listening, Hawke.”

 

“Anyway, it’s just us,” says Hawke. “For birthdays, and all that.”

 

Dog returns, dropping the ball on the grass, and then she collapses in a heap at Hawke’s feet, panting. He absently kicks off his shoe and rubs her belly with his bare foot.

 

“My mother died as well,” says Fenris softly. “I am… I am sometimes glad I do not remember it, or her.” He scowls, his mouth twisting. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to… I know it’s wrong. I see Varania, I look at the family pictures, I see her pain, and I only feel relief. The Fenris that knew her doesn’t exist anymore and may never return.”

 

Hawke lets out a long, slow breath. “Do you _want_ to remember?”

 

“I don’t know,” says Fenris quietly. “Varania wants that. I think I’m supposed to want that as well.”

 

“But you don’t,” Hawke suggests gently.

 

“I don’t know,” repeats Fenris, frustration edging his words. “Even if I remember, I’ve spent nearly two years as this new, other person. I’ve changed. How would I reconcile those personalities? Why should I sit around waiting for this original better self to emerge? I exist now. I’m living a life. It is my own.”

 

“I think you have enough to deal with,” agrees Hawke. “It makes sense that the idea of regaining your memories is more stressful than not. How you feel is how you feel. It doesn’t make you a bad person to find this difficult.”

 

“I ran from my only remaining family,” Fenris says bitterly.

 

“You’re taking time to learn yourself,” replies Hawke. “Varania may recognise you, Fenris, but right now, you’re the only one that knows you.”

 

They sit quietly for a few more minutes, Dog napping at their feet.

 

“ _You_ know me,” says Fenris.

 

It’s like a punch to the chest. Hawke has nothing to say in response, no clever quip or graceless platitude.

 

He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and covers Fenris’s hand with his own.

 

oOo

 

The week is long, hot, and slow. As the humidity outside builds to truly unbearable levels, the apartment building’s central air dies completely and the entire furnace system needs to be replaced. On Saturday, Hawke wakes to total darkness in the middle of the afternoon only a couple of hours after he fell asleep.

 

He didn’t wake because of the darkness, he woke because of the oppressive heat, and he hastily strips out of his t-shirt to lie on top of the covers in just his boxers, arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. Reducing skin to skin contact might allow him at least the slightest chance to cool down, but after half an hour lying motionless in his stuffy bedroom, Hawke drags himself out of bed in search of ice.

 

The kitchen is just as dark as his bedroom and Hawke spends a confused moment standing by the sink scratching his arse and staring out the window, trying to figure out if it’s actually three in the morning and not three in the afternoon.

 

“What are you doing up?” asks Fenris.

 

“Jesus!” Hawke yelps, turning. “You’re like a panther. I never hear you approach.”

 

“I tiptoe,” says Fenris dryly.

 

“You _tiptoe_.”

 

“Are you alright, Hawke? You look flushed.” Fenris goes to the fridge and opens it to retrieve the tub of vanilla yogurt that has FENRIS printed on it in black sharpie. Hawke is mildly offended Fenris thinks Hawke would steal his yogurt. Everyone knows Hawke hates yogurt.

 

“Thank you for noticing,” says Hawke. “I’ve taken up hot yoga, actually. Alone, in my bedroom.”

 

“Ah,” says Fenris, opening the cutlery drawer and selecting a spoon. “The heat woke you.”

 

“It’s like a _sauna_ in here,” says Hawke defensively. “Are we sure the floor isn’t lava? How can you eat _yogurt_ at a time like this? Or at any time, really.”

 

Fenris shrugs. “I found a fan in the closet. I’m surviving somehow.”

 

“How dare you,” says Hawke, stalking to the fridge to open the freezer and pull out the ice cube tray. “How very dare you.” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard and starts cracking all the ice cubes into it.

 

“What are you going to do?” asks Fenris, raising his eyebrows.

 

“I don’t know,” says Hawke. “I didn’t get too far beyond ‘ice’. I might just pour it over the top of my head and then lie on the floor in a puddle of my melted dreams until summer is over.”

 

“I ran into the super earlier,” says Fenris. “He said they should be installing the new unit tomorrow. The air conditioning should be working again in the next couple of days.”

 

“I’ll probably be dead by then,” says Hawke. “Remember me fondly.”

 

Fenris huffs a laugh and eats a big spoonful of yogurt. Hawke makes a face at him. Fenris makes a face right back.

 

“Maybe I’ll run a bath,” says Hawke. “And fill it with ice.”

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris wearily. “Please don’t get in a bathtub full of ice.”

 

“Don’t tell me how to live my life!” Hawke picks up an ice cube, contemplates his choices, and then wipes it all over his face.

 

“You don’t have enough ice,” points out Fenris.

 

“I could run to the corner store,” challenges Hawke stubbornly. “And buy more.”

 

“Or you could buy ice cream.” Fenris raises his eyebrows; check and mate. “And popsicles.”

 

“...Oooh,” says Hawke. All the post-Brandon pints of Ben and Jerry’s are gone. A pint of Phish Food sounds a lot better than an ice bath. “You make a good point.”

 

Hawke’s been upwardly mobile for less than ten minutes and he’s already coated with a fine layer of sweat. If Hell is a real place, it is located in Hawke’s apartment.

 

“Perhaps you should put on a shirt,” Fenris says, voice neutral. His gaze flickers briefly to Hawke’s chest. “If you’re going to go to the corner store.”

 

“Ugh,” groans Hawke. The idea of putting clothing against his already overheated skin is a terrible one. Necessary, but terrible. “I’ll be right back. You coming?”

 

Fenris shrugs. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

 

oOo

 

It is, of course, worse outside.

 

There is a complete lack of wind, the air thick and stale like soup, denying them even the possibility of a breeze.

 

“She could have picked anywhere,” says Hawke, when they’re halfway down the block. “She could have picked literally anywhere to settle, and she chose _Florida_.”

 

“Your mother?” asks Fenris, raising his eyebrows. His cheeks are flushed and there are strands of white hair clinging to his forehead.

 

“None other,” says Hawke, huffing. A droplet of sweat trickles all the way down his spine and collects at the small of his back. He pauses to peer up at the sky, where angry black clouds have entirely blotted out the tireless summer sun, and says, “Bet you miss Seattle right now.”

 

“The weather was more agreeable,” admits Fenris. He reaches into his pocket and removes a hair elastic, aggressively collecting handfuls of his hair until he can tie it back off his neck in the tiniest little ponytail. Loose strands immediately start falling out around his face.

 

“I’d take the near-constant rain over this suffocating heat,” says Hawke. “At least it’s temperate. I feel like I’m being boiled inside my own skin.”

 

“That is a very unpleasant image,” mutters Fenris. “It’s more like… being steamed.”

 

“We’re broccoli,” says Hawke, pushing open the door to the corner store and immediately stopping short under the air conditioning vent.

 

Fenris runs into his back, wrapping a hand around Hawke’s arm and complaining unintelligibly under his breath. Then the cool air hits his skin and he just stands there behind Hawke, sighing in relief.

 

“We could just live here until the air conditioning is fixed,” says Hawke. He remembers how to walk again and heads for the freezer, Fenris trailing after him.

 

“I’m sure no one would notice,” says Fenris. He picks up a bag of cheese puffs and tucks it under his arm.

 

Hawke retrieves two pints of Ben and Jerry’s and a box of popsicles from the freezer, pressing them all against his face and chest and letting out a blissful sigh. He greets the cashier and reluctantly sets his selections down on the counter. “Give me that,” he says to Fenris. “No point making two purchases.”

 

“It’s fine,” says Fenris. “You don’t need to—”

 

“Ring that up as well, please,” Hawke says to the boy behind the counter as he pulls out his wallet. “Hand it over, Fenris. Don’t make this young man’s life more difficult.”

 

Fenris silently hands over the bag of cheese puffs. Hawke pays, the cashier puts everything into a plastic bag, and then they go back outside.

 

“Lets just get this over with,” says Hawke. After the brief respite offered to them indoors the heat actually feels like it could kill them. “It’s only two blocks.”

 

“I’m not running, Hawke,” says Fenris stubbornly.

 

“Fine,” says Hawke. “Big strides. Power walk.”

 

It’s honestly just Hawke’s luck. They don’t even get ten feet before the sky opens up. There is no warning patter of raindrops. No time to run for cover.

 

It’s the kind of indiscriminate rain that doesn’t care whether or not you have an umbrella, it’s going to soak you regardless, coming down faster and faster, until the roar of falling rain drowns out everything else and the street and sidewalk is flooded in an inch of water. Big, fat, heavy drops crash down in a regular drumbeat against the pavement and surrounding buildings. Hawke is soaked to the skin in less than fifteen seconds.

 

The worst part is that it isn’t even refreshing. It’s _warm rain_. A torrential downpour of _piss_.

 

“Are you willing to run _now_?” Hawke yells at Fenris, who has reacted to the rain like a turtle trying to retreat into his shell, shoulders hunching up high around his ears, his mouth a thin line, as the rain beats down on his body and turns his white t-shirt translucent. Hawke can, quite suddenly, see the outline of tattoos on his body underneath his wet shirt.

 

“Don’t just stand there,” snaps Fenris, grabbing Hawke’s hand. “ _Move_.”

 

oOo

 

By the time they stumble back into the apartment, thunder is rolling overhead.

 

It’s dark inside, even darker than when Hawke woke up, that peculiar quality of light that heralds a massive fuck-off storm and really should have warned Hawke to stay indoors. Pushing open the door, Hawke drops his keys into the bowl, puts the plastic bag full of ice cream down on the floor, and shudders as he pulls his soaking wet t-shirt away from his body.

 

He can see Fenris grimace, water beading and dripping off the slope of his nose. Fenris wipes a hand uselessly over his face. “We should get towels.”

 

“No, don’t you dare drip water down the hallway,” protests Hawke, catching him by the elbow. “Puddles everywhere. Get your kit off first.” As if to demonstrate, Hawke grabs the hem of his t-shirt and strips it off, letting it fall to the floor in a sodden heap.

 

A bolt of lightning briefly illuminates Fenris’s raised eyebrows and fixated expression before returning him to dim silhouette.

 

Pushing his hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes, Hawke kicks off his flip flops and then tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts to shimmy out of them.

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris roughly. He shifts in the semi-darkness, moving closer. “I…”

 

Hawke freezes. Lightning flashes, revealing Fenris’s face—lower lip caught in his teeth, eyes half-lidded as his gaze rakes over Hawke’s bare chest—and thunder rolls in again moments later, startling them both. “Should I….”

 

Fenris pulls his own t-shirt over his head with a quick movement and drops it on the floor. “No,” he says sharply, voice too loud in the thick, close air. Stepping in, he curls his fingers over Hawke’s hands, thumbs pressing snug against the pulse point on each wrist.

 

With Hawke already bent a little at the waist, Fenris doesn’t need to lean up too far to brush the tip of his nose against Hawke’s.

 

“Oh,” says Hawke quietly, closing his eyes. Fenris’s skin is warm and damp, his mouth just—there. Hawke can hear and feel him breathing, the two of them standing so close Hawke wonders if Fenris can hear the nervous beat of his own heart or feel the heat rising in his skin.

 

“I would like to—” Fenris pauses, his words quiet but clear.

 

“You can,” Hawke says quickly.

 

Fenris hesitates, just for a moment. It’s still too dark for Hawke to clearly make out the expression on his face, but his body language is firm as he reaches up to curl one hand around the back of Hawke’s neck, guiding him in, and—

 

—Fenris kisses him, mouth pressing hot and fierce against Hawke’s lips.

 

It is just that, at first.

 

Hawke leans into it, closing his eyes, relaxing his shoulders. Then Fenris makes a noise against his mouth and pushes Hawke bodily against the wall. When Hawke’s lips part in wordless surprise, Fenris kisses him again, the cautious press of his tongue against Hawke’s sending a little bolt of arousal straight down his spine.

 

‘Receptive passivity’ is once how Bran characterized Hawke’s preferred role in relationships. Hawke had, initially, wanted to deny it, but in the end, he could only amend, “ _Enthusiastic_  receptive passivity” while Bran rolled his eyes.

 

In his capacity as a sexual partner, Hawke falls easily into letting whoever he’s with lead. He learned quickly that he is flexible and easily pleased; another’s pleasure contributes significantly to his own and he rarely runs into things he doesn’t like.

 

So when Fenris pins him to the wall by the hips and drags Hawke down to the correct height for a good, thorough snog, Hawke is more than content to let Fenris take whatever he wants.

 

His own hands finally settle, one on Fenris’s waist and the other tentatively cupping the back of Fenris’s head, fingers buried in the wet tangle of hair. When Fenris pushes, biting hungrily at Hawke’s mouth, Hawke leans back against the wall, bracing them both securely upright.

 

“Is this…” Fenris breaks off to speak, his voice a ragged thing.

 

“Perfect,” says Hawke, swallowing hard. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough to show him Fenris as he allows just enough space between them for some steadying breaths; the white ink of his tattoos stands out starkly against his dark skin, and Hawke touches their foreheads together as he lowers his eyes to trace the patterns down past the dip of his clavicle. “You’re perfect. You’re so—Fenris, you’re—” Hawke huffs, sliding his hand up from Fenris’s hip to brush at a dotted curl of ink against the damp plane of Fenris’s belly.

 

Fenris lets out a breathless laugh and tilts his head up to press his mouth to the corner of Hawke’s eye in a soft kiss. “At a loss for words? Ordinarily, I’d record this moment for posterity.”

 

“Ordinarily, we wouldn’t be doing this,” murmurs Hawke. “I didn’t think—”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” says Fenris, not unkindly. “You must have…” He trails off, suddenly uncertain.

 

“Yes,” Hawke assures him. “Though honestly, I don’t often allow myself to get my hopes up. The last thing I’d want to do is… become another thing in your life that’s pressuring you.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” repeats Fenris, firmly this time. “You make me feel…” He trails off, seemingly frustrated.

 

Hawke tips his chin up to meet the vulnerable curve of Fenris’s mouth, chancing an encouraging kiss. “Annoyed?” teases Hawke.

 

“Hopeful,” says Fenris. “Secure. You have never treated me like I’m not in control of my own life.” The next kiss he plants on Hawke’s swollen mouth is confident and demanding.

 

Hawke groans and arches helplessly into Fenris, tugging lightly on his hair.

 

Fenris stiffens.

 

“Sorry,” whispers Hawke, stilling his overheated body and reflexively loosening his grip. “I am so sorry.”

 

“No,” says Fenris, relaxing slowly. “No, I just didn’t expect…” He leans in and presses his mouth to Hawke’s again and again, before parting his lips with his tongue. Hawke enjoys the leisurely slide, the hot, slick pressure of his mouth, until Fenris tugs Hawke’s lower lip between his teeth and nips sharply but carefully at sensitive flesh.

 

He doesn’t even draw blood, and Hawke wouldn’t care if he did, but Hawke shudders and grunts in protest all the same, his hips involuntarily bucking into the hard wall of Fenris’s body holding him pinned. Fenris is a lot stronger than he looks.

 

“I like that,” says Hawke roughly.

 

“Is there anything you _don’t_ like?” It’s a sentence that could be judgemental, but coming from Fenris in that curious tone, it’s a genuine concerned query.

 

“Not… really,” admits Hawke, blinking heavy-lidded eyes at Fenris. “Is there anything I should…?”

 

Fenris chuckles, a low, pleasantly resonant sound that settles warmly in the pit of Hawke’s belly. Fenris is unreal in the darkness, eyes wide and serious, his body a map. “I don’t know. I suspect we’ll find out together.”

 

“You have to tell me,” Hawke says urgently, bending lower to press his face to the bare curve of Fenris’s shoulder and snuffling at him anxiously. “If there’s anything….”

 

“I will tell you,” agrees Fenris. Then, “I trust you, Hawke.”

 

Hawke makes a strangled noise and shudders again. “Sorry,” he says, sliding his hand up to rest at the small of Fenris’s back. He’s beginning to get hard, the proximity of their bodies ramping up the tension vibrating in his skin.

 

“For?” asks Fenris, raking his fingers down Hawke’s chest, through damp curls of dark hair.

 

“Erm.” Hawke isn’t quite sure. It just sort of came out. “I’m getting all… wound up.”

 

“I am enjoying it,” murmurs Fenris. “Do you have any idea…” He traces his fingertips down the trail of hair that disappears into Hawke’s shorts, dipping just below the waistband and tugging at the elastic. “Your refusal to wear a shirt most of the time is maddening. You’re a handsome man, Hawke.”

 

“I don’t like wearing clothes,” protests Hawke. “I’d just wander around naked if it was socially acceptable to do so.”

 

Fenris swallows back a laugh. This time, the kiss he presses to Hawke’s lips is leisurely, no tongue or teeth. It trembles with affection and Hawke is quite suddenly weak in the knees. “I prefer layers, myself,” he says against Hawke’s mouth.

 

“Do you… do you want to move to the couch, or the bed?” asks Hawke, his voice a little strained from the effort he’s expending to hold back.

 

“The bed,” says Fenris, meeting Hawke’s gaze. His eyes are large and dark, fringed with bright white hair, and Hawke can’t resist pressing a kiss to his forehead before taking his hand to pull himself away from the wall.

 

oOo

 

The heat and humidity hasn’t broken yet.

 

Hawke’s bedroom is still stuffy and hot, the curtains drawn, when Hawke closes the door behind them. It doesn’t seem right to just turn on the overhead light, or even the lamp, so he plugs in the string of Christmas lights he keeps on the headboard of his bed year round.

 

“Festive,” murmurs Fenris, sitting on the edge of Hawke’s bed and pulling his legs up under him. The lights throw a warm glow over them both as Hawke settles next to him.

 

“I try,” says Hawke. He grins, leaning back on his elbows. He is absolutely not expecting Fenris to throw a leg over Hawke’s hips and straddle him, but that’s precisely what he does, settling above him with a look of intent.

 

“What should I… what do you…?” Despite the plethora of unfinished questions, Hawke knows what Fenris is asking.

 

“Can I… touch you?” asks Hawke, keeping his voice hushed.

 

Fenris snorts, lips curving up at the corners. He nods.

 

With Fenris settled over him like this, top off, Hawke takes a moment to drink in Fenris’s smooth skin and tight muscles. The design of his tattoos is even more intricate than Hawke realised, spreading down his torso and arms in sweeping curls and accented dots until they disappear into his shorts and reappear again down his legs.

 

“Do they… go _all_ the way, then?” asks Hawke, reaching out to trace the path of the ink that dips down the flat plane of his belly. “Truly?”

 

Fenris nods, tucking his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He raises his eyebrows, questioning.

 

Hawke’s mouth has gone dry. “If you… if you want. We can…” He clears his throat, cheeks flushing. “Good lord, I can’t even speak. You’re so… Listen, have you ever, with someone…?”

 

“Not really,” says Fenris. “Not like this.”

 

“Would you like to try something?”

 

“Something would be preferable to nothing, Hawke,” says Fenris tartly, flashing his teeth in a grin.

 

“Right, okay, then…” Hawke pats Fenris on the hip. “Roll onto your side and get these off?”

 

It’s the last of it, gone, once they both finish removing their shorts and underwear, nothing but still-damp naked skin spread out on Hawke’s bed. He bends briefly over the edge of the bed to grab lubricant from the bedside table.

 

Hawke is careful not to touch as he rolls onto his side, Fenris falling into place beside him, waits for Fenris to scoot in close, the tips of their noses touching, before Hawke cups a hand around his neck to kiss him.

 

“Can I touch you?” he asks again, softer, a cautious hand settled on Fenris’s waist, thumb brushing the knob of his hip.

 

Fenris makes a small, exasperated noise. “ _Yes_.”

 

“I do mean your dick,” he clarifies.

 

This time, Fenris rolls his eyes. “I did assume.”

 

“Come closer,” says Hawke, shuffling in a little. Their hips bump, and Hawke doesn’t miss the hitch in Fenris’s breathing as Hawke’s hardening cock brushes against Fenris’s thigh. Once they’re pressed up close, Hawke squeezes out a bit of lube, rubs it between his palms, and jerks himself one, twice, before wrapping his fist around both of their dicks.

 

Fenris gasps and jerks into it so Hawke tightens his grip, finding the right angle to stroke down smoothly and then pull back up. The first couple of pulls are awkward as he finds the right rhythm but then he settles into a firm, even pace.

 

At first, Fenris tenses up, spine straight, each pull of Hawke’s first dragging a low moan out of his throat. Then Hawke strokes the side of his thumb lightly down the length of Fenris’s cock and Fenris abruptly goes limp with a muffled little whine.

 

He’s pressed his face half into the mattress, one hand curled like a vice around the back of Hawke’s neck, the other digging into the flesh of his ass like if he lets go they’ll both float away. Hawke can’t look away from his face, the way his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, lips parted on each strained sound that escapes him on the down-stroke.

 

“Okay?” whispers Hawke, enjoying the slick glide of his hand around them both, the solid flushed heat of Fenris’s cock alongside his, and Hawke’s touching him, they’re doing this, and it is unbelievably good.

 

“Hnuh...uh,” groans Fenris, with a vague nod of his head. His hair falls into his eyes, strands sticking to his forehead and his nose. “F...ine.”

 

Heat is rising in Hawke’s skin, body prickling with sweat from head to toe, as a leisurely orgasm builds in the base of his belly. He bites his lower lip, relishing the slow burn of arousal, stomach muscles tensing with each stroke; he can’t help going faster now, chasing the building pleasure.

 

Tucked right up against him, Fenris begins to squirm, body tensing and releasing in a telling wave. When he goes stiff, clutching at Hawke, his voice is tight as he bites out Hawke’s name in warning.

 

“You can,” mumbles Hawke, “G’on, love.”

 

He tightens his grip, rubbing the pad of his thumb clumsily into the slit of Fenris’s cock, and Fenris comes in a shuddering rush of overstimulated sensation, body arching into Hawke’s fist and going completely and utterly still as he spills over Hawke’s hand.

 

“That’s it,” Hawke finds himself mumbling, “that’s it, that’s it, perfect,” milking Fenris through the last tremors of orgasm. That’s enough to coax himself into coming as well, slick fist still wrapped around them both, hips jerking helplessly.

 

There’s a blank space in his memory following his orgasm.

 

Hawke either falls asleep or blacks out or just leaves this plane of existence for a few seconds. He honest to god transcends his mortal vessel, leaving it in graceless repose, mouth hanging open as it drools onto the pillow, fingers curled lax around their softening cocks, only coming back to reality as Fenris says, “—stick to the sheets.”

 

“Sorry,” Hawke says around a jaw-cracking yawn, releasing his loose grip. “...Sorry, what?”

 

“I said that we should get cleaned up before we stick to the sheets,” repeats Fenris. His eyes crinkle a bit at the corners when he smiles, and he slides his hand up Hawke’s body to cup his jaw. “You need some sleep. I’ll get a cloth.”

 

Last night’s shift and his disrupted sleep have caught up to Hawke, who is stunningly useless now that an orgasm has been wrung out of him. He’s vaguely aware of Fenris rubbing a warm wet cloth over him carefully, cleaning come and sweat off his sticky skin. Then the cloth and Fenris disappear entirely and Hawke rolls onto his other side, yawning into the pillow.

 

When Fenris slides back into bed, there’s a pause before he lies down at Hawke’s back, scooting up to spoon him, the reassuring weight of his arm draping over Hawke’s hip.

 

“Sorry, I’m useless,” mumbles Hawke, and honestly, just making coherent words is difficult at this point. “Crashing so hard. Y’okay?”

 

“Hush,” says Fenris, his voice low in Hawke’s ear. There’s the light press of his lips at the nape of Hawke’s neck and he settles down.

 

“We’ll talk,” slurs Hawke. “Stay. Stay here.”

 

Fenris laces their fingers together, tucking his arm against Hawke’s belly. “I’m staying, Hawke.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which carver comes to visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thanks to [starsandgraces](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/profile) for betaing this chapter <3

At some point, mid-sleep, Hawke must have rolled back over.

 

When he wakes up he’s no longer the little spoon; neither is Fenris, who’s now sprawled on his back snoring softly, a cloud of white hair obscuring most of his face. Hawke has flopped over onto his stomach, arm tucked around Fenris’s waist, and he is pressing his face into the space between Fenris’s torso and his upper arm, the top of Hawke’s head cradled by his armpit.

 

Hawke nuzzles sleepily at Fenris. Half-pinned beneath him, Fenris twitches and mumbles something under his breath.

 

Hawke replies with an inquisitive noise.

 

Fenris grunts. “Time?”

 

“I don’t have a single earthly clue,” sighs Hawke. “My phone is… somewhere. Time is an illusion, Fenris.”

 

Fenris lets out an involuntary snort which turns quickly into helpless laughter. “I assume this is what happens when you work nights for a decade of your life.”

 

“I have to cope somehow,” says Hawke, shifting to prop his chin up on Fenris’s sternum.

 

Fenris peers at him down the length of his nose, eyebrow raised. “Your chin is digging in. Not only is it sharp, it’s also scratchy.” He pats the top of Hawke’s head, ruffling his tangled hair.

 

“I condition,” protests Hawke, sitting up to lean on the headboard instead.

 

“You condition your beard?”

 

“Fenris, please. Of course I do. How else do you think it gets so luxurious?” asks Hawke. Lying alongside Fenris, both of them casually naked and in close proximity, Hawke realises he has the opportunity to examine Fenris’s tattoos in more detail; they do, indeed, go all the way down.

 

The long curves of ink seem to follow some internal pattern, twisting and curling across Fenris’s chest to spread down his thighs in branching formations. The ink stops right in the dip of his pelvis, above the base of his dick. Hawke’s subtle observations reveal a complete lack of body hair. Fenris is just impossibly smooth skin and taut muscle all the way down. Hawke feels like a literal bear beside him in comparison.

 

“What are you looking at?” asks Fenris.

 

Hawke traces the path of Fenris’s tattoos delicately down the hollow of his throat and says, “These. Is there a story here?”

 

“Presumably,” answers Fenris. “Unfortunately… if there is, I don’t know it. I got these tattoos done before the accident. They… mean nothing to me.”

 

Hawke’s still a little sleepy and orgasm-stupid, so it takes a bit of effort to mull through the implications. How strange it must be, to live with something so permanent, something that must have been very personal to the person who chose to get it done. The tattoos are on his body, written into his skin, but they’re no longer his. The meaning behind them doesn’t belong to him.

 

“They’re very pretty,” says Hawke at length. “Just like you.”

 

Fenris lets out a giggle which he smoothly turns into a cough as he clears his throat. “I don’t mind them. Though they’re very… all-encompassing. I can’t ever cover them entirely.”

 

Now that he thinks of it, Fenris tends to favour long trousers and long-sleeved shirts. He’s only begun wearing t-shirts and shorts outside of the apartment as the weather has grown progressively hotter. It must have been much easier to dress for maximum coverage in the significantly more temperate climate of Seattle.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s gone silent, rubbing circles into Fenris’s hip with his thumb, until Fenris asks, “Why did you think I was going to leave, after?”

 

Hawke hesitates. “Most of the people I’ve had sex with do, or have wanted me to clear out. I can count the number of times Brandon and I spent the night together on one hand. It wasn’t… it just slipped out. I was tired.”

 

“I don’t….” Fenris clears his throat and tentatively winds their fingers together, giving Hawke’s hand a squeeze. “I don’t wish to leave.”

 

“I hoped you wouldn’t,” admits Hawke, smiling. “For one thing, you live here. And I really like—”

 

He’s interrupted by someone knocking loudly on the apartment door. Whoever is there is actually using the doorknocker and using it with considerable aggression.

 

“I’ll just get that, shall I,” he says dryly, groaning as he rolls over to drop his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. “Maybe it’s the super, here to knock some of the cost off next month’s rent for the air conditioning fiasco.”

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris.

 

“Mm?” Hawke pauses on his way to the door.

 

“Put some trousers on.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Hawke finds a pair of boxers on the floor and pulls them on, pausing to squint dimly at himself in the mirror. There’s not much he can do about the dire state of his hair, and there’s some dried come on his belly that flakes off as he scratches himself, but he definitely only looks like he _probably_ just had sex.

 

Glancing back at the bed, Hawke finds that Fenris has literally pulled the sheet over himself and rolled over to go back to sleep. “I’ll just deal with this, then, darling,” he says loudly. “Don’t mind me!”

 

Unsurprisingly, Fenris ignores him.

 

Emerging into the hallway, Hawke trips immediately over Dog, who has placed her enormous body right across the threshold of his bedroom door. In the living room, he trips on his own discarded shirt and, tragically, the abandoned plastic bag full of now-melted ice cream. Then, as the pièce de résistance of his punishment for leaving the bedroom without his glasses on in a dark apartment, Hawke trips on the welcome mat and collides with the door.

 

“Ouch,” he says plaintively as he steps back, sliding back the deadbolt and pulling open the door to reveal Isabela.

 

“Oh! Isabela!” Hawke rubs his eyes against the light that suddenly floods in from the hallway. “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

Isabela arches an eyebrow at him and gives him a cursory head-to-toe once over. “Hawke. Have you forgotten we live in the same building again?”

 

“To be fair,” says Hawke, “You spend like five nights a week at Merrill’s. The rest of the time I’m at work, or you’re on your way to the shop and I’m on my way to bed.”

 

“Mm.” Isabela is not really listening. She’s noticed Hawke isn’t just his usual brand of dishevelled, her eyes narrowing in suspicious revelation. “Are you… have you been….” She laughs suddenly. “You look alarmingly debauched. Have I caught you in the middle of some alone time?”

 

Hawke’s face goes a bright, embarrassed red. He says nothing. His jaw is practically glued shut. All he knows is that his eyes are wide and his face is burning, and he can’t _speak_.

 

“Oh my god,” says Isabela, “Oh my _god_. You didn’t? You _did_!”

 

Hawke steps out into the hallway and pulls the door mostly closed behind him, careful not to shut it and lock himself out. He frantically waves a hand at Isabela to lower her voice. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re _here_?” he hisses, when he recovers the power of speech.  

 

“I was being an excellent friend and bringing you a present,” says Isabela, waving a plastic bag at him. “Only I’ve stumbled right into _Roommate Seduction 101_.”

 

“He kissed me!” blurts Hawke. “No. I mean. He—I— _We_ … there was no seduction involved whatsoever. I’m adamant we be represented in the forthcoming gossip amongst our friends as grown adults that realised their mutual attraction and did something about it, _together_!”

 

Isabela’s grin is incandescent. She smacks Hawke with her purse. “Is he in there? Waiting for you to come back?”

 

“He does _live_ here, Isabela,” says Hawke. “And honestly, he’s probably asleep. I’m not anticipating he’s awaiting my triumphant return with bated breath.”

 

“Good,” says Isabela. “Nobody should.” She winks at him and then punches him in the arm. When he doesn’t flinch or complain, she does it again, harder, in exactly the same spot.

 

“Ow!” he yelps, clutching his arm to his chest. “What did I do?”

 

“Nothing,” says Isabela, her voice going hard around the edges. “But it goes without saying: if you hurt him, Hawke….”

 

“I don’t plan on it!” Hawke holds up his hands in placating gesture. “What if _I_ get hurt?”

 

“You just did,” says Isabela. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you thump into the door.”

 

“Ha ha,” says Hawke. “Can I have my present now?”

 

Isabela hands him the plastic bag. Inside it is a tank top in a truly offensive shade of neon yellow. Printed across it in huge block letters are the words HOT MESS EXPRESS. Hawke gasps softly as he holds up the shirt. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers. “This is my favourite thing in the entire world. I’m going to wear this to the twins’ birthday dinner.”

 

“Oh, Carver will love that,” says Isabela. “How inspired.”

 

“Thank you,” says Hawke, instinctively leaning in for a hug.

 

Isabela dodges him deftly, her nose wrinkling. “Don’t you _dare_. You reek, big boy. You can thank me some other time, with a thoughtful material possession. I’ll forward you my amazon wishlist.”

 

“I’ll choose something suitably priced to match,” agrees Hawke.

 

“Excellent,” says Isabela, turning to leave. “I’ll talk to you later, Hawke. Maybe the four of us could go out sometime.”

 

“Double date. Absolutely,” says Hawke, waving her off. “Kiss kiss!”

 

When he lets himself back into the apartment, he collects the spoiled ice cream from the floor and transfers it directly into the garbage. He spends a couple of minutes collecting their damp clothes off the floor and dropping everything into the hamper, before he returns to his bedroom.

 

Fenris is still there. Not that Hawke thought he’d leave, really, but he likes seeing him there, sprawled on his belly across the middle of the mattress, face buried in Hawke’s pillow.

 

“I have bad news,” Hawke announces, climbing onto the bed and crawling up to crouch over Fenris. He traces a fingertip down the line of Fenris’s spine and Fenris twitches and makes an irritated sound.

 

“Chopped’s been cancelled,” he mutters.

 

“ _What_?” cries Hawke. “Take that back!”

 

“You said you had bad news,” says Fenris. He turns his head to the side and his eyes open to slits. “I guessed.”

 

“Don’t scare me like that,” groans Hawke, pressing a hand over his heart. “God, no. The ice cream. We forgot it in the living room and it melted. It’s been put to rest in the trash.”

 

“Oh.” Fenris rolls over and scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes. “Who was at the door?”

 

“Isabela,” replies Hawke. “She was bringing me a gift. I’ll show you later.”

 

“Did you find out what time it is?”

 

“...No.”

 

Fenris sighs. “I suppose we should get up.”

 

“I’ve been told I need a shower,” agrees Hawke. He clears his throat. “Fenris. Is this… Are we…?”

 

Fenris sits up, scooting out from beneath Hawke to lean against the headboard, his hair an appealing tumble as he blinks slowly at Hawke. “I’ve been reliably informed it’s easier to understand what people want when they finish their sentences.”

 

Hawke laughs anxiously. “This is a little embarrassing to admit,” he says. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve… dated someone. Is that… what’s happening here?”

 

“Are we dating?” asks Fenris, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Yes, that’s what I’ve just asked you,” says Hawke. “It’s okay if you’re not sure, or if you need to think about it, I’m… I’m coming on rather strong, aren’t I?”

 

Fenris looks, disconcertingly, like he’s trying not to laugh. After a moment, he clears his throat and reaches out to curl his fingers into Hawke’s hair, reeling him in. Hawke goes easily into the kiss.

 

“That was nice,” says Hawke when they part. “Though it still wasn’t a yes or a no. Sorry.”

 

“It was an attempt to reassure,” soothes Fenris. He ruffles Hawke’s hair and kisses his cheek. “Hawke. I want….” He huffs, visibly flustered, his brows drawing together.

 

“Would you like to?” asks Hawke. “Date?”

 

“I would like to try,” replies Fenris, blowing out a relieved breath. “I would like… slowly, to try.”

 

Hawke is, at least, aware enough to read the implicit request in Fenris’s words: _have patience with me_.

 

He is so euphoric about the promise of a relationship with Fenris that burying the niggling anxiety in the pit of his belly is easier than it would normally be; as a general rule, Hawke doesn’t like to take risks. He’s been settled comfortably in his familiar rut for nearly ten years. There’s a very real sense of terror involved in pursuing this path, namely, in potentially making mistakes that could damage a friendship that took a long time to build. It’s been a while since Hawke made new friends.

 

And he really, really likes Fenris. A lot.

 

Hawke takes a shaky breath and grins. “I feel the same way.”

 

“I know,” says Fenris. “When we went to the fair with Bethany, you… said we were on a date. Was I not supposed to know?”

 

Hawke blinks. “I said that?”

 

Fenris chuckles. “An accident, then.”

 

“Oh my god,” says Hawke, putting a pillow over his face. “Oh _god_.”

 

oOo

 

The humidity lifts that night after the storm and Hawke opens all the windows to let in the breeze.

 

When they finally drag themselves out of Hawke’s bedroom just past eight in the evening, Hawke lets Fenris shower first mostly because it feels too early to suggest showering together. While he’s in the bathroom Hawke strips the sheets off his bed and collects all the laundry to start the washing machine after they’re both finished showering.

 

Hawke takes his turn when Fenris emerges, finding the perfect lukewarm water temperature to scrub all the sweat and come off his skin and avoid filling the newly cooled apartment with steam.

 

Changing into fresh pyjamas, Hawke puts in his contacts, starts the washer, and goes into the kitchen to find Fenris… cooking dinner.

 

“We need groceries,” he says, glancing at Hawke over his shoulder. “I’m making omelets because we have little else.”

 

Hawke is almost incapacitated by the sudden rush of fond warmth that overwhelms him. Coming up beside Fenris at the counter, Hawke cups his jaw to tilt his face up and kisses him on the forehead. “Can I have lots of cheese in mine?” he asks.

 

Fenris huffs and glances briefly at Hawke through his lashes. “There’s cheddar in the fridge. You have to grate it.”

 

“I think I can handle that,” says Hawke. With a final kiss to Fenris’s hair, Hawke goes to the fridge. “Did you decide whether you wanted to come to Orlando with us?”

 

“For Bethany and Carver’s birthday,” says Fenris, beating eggs in a bowl with a fork.

 

Hawke retrieves the block of cheese and closes the refrigerator door. “Yes. Carver gets here in a few days. Is it still all right that he’s staying with us?”

 

“Yes, of course,” says Fenris. “I… if you would like me to come along, I would enjoy spending the day with you. However, I don’t want to intrude on time spent with your siblings.”

 

“You can’t possibly intrude if I’m actively requesting you join us,” points out Hawke. “I _want_ you to intrude. If you’re there, Carver can’t spend the entire day vocally judging my life choices.”

 

Fenris turns towards him, fork paused in midair. “You want me to act as a buffer between you and your brother.”

 

“Not exactly,” says Hawke, sitting down at the kitchen table with a piece of wax paper and the cheese grater. “We honestly get along much better, now that he’s gone off to college. That… sounds awful. I just mean we’re at a point in our lives now where I don’t think he _actually_ hates me anymore.”

 

Fenris makes a thoughtful noise. Hawke is sure he’s remembering their argument about Varania and how Hawke artfully twisted the truth to make it seem like his relationship with Carver is a lot smoother than it actually is. “Why does Bethany always have to remind you to email him back?” Fenris finally asks.

 

“I am charmingly absent-minded,” Hawke says mildly. Fenris has a stare that is almost tangible; he applies it skillfully to Hawke’s face until Hawke amends, “Because he is relentless in his ongoing quest to transform me into less of an embarrassment.”

 

“I don’t understand,” says Fenris.

 

“It’s never just… a normal conversation with Carver,” Hawke tries to explain. “After finishing with pleasantries, he just. Launches right into what I should be doing to find a proper grown up job. He sends me potential colleges, programs I should consider, classes I should take. He’s always talking about when I’ll go back to school, now that I’m not supporting them. That I… don’t have the excuse not to do it.” He lets out a short bark of laughter. “I think he’s ashamed of me.”

 

Standing there holding a fork dripping with egg, Fenris’s face hardens. “I see.”

 

“He means well,” says Hawke quickly. “Although it manifests as a constant, simmering resentment when I inevitably don’t do any of the things he’d like me to do. The phrase ‘getting your life back on track’ comes up quite often.”

 

“I see,” repeats Fenris.

 

“It’s fine,” says Hawke. “It’s not like he’s wrong. I’m an extreme underachiever.”

 

“I’m uncertain why he feels that reflects on him,” says Fenris, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Ah,” says Hawke. “Well. You don’t know Carver.”

 

oOo

 

“Good _lord_ ,” says Hawke, when Carver emerges from the arrivals gate dressed in head to toe bro. The pale pink polo shirt is actually something Bethany bought him last Christmas, but when combined with chinos, a pair of flip flops, a backwards baseball cap, and sunglasses worn indoors, he’s truly transformed. “Is there some sort of handshake we’re supposed to do?” he asks as Carver approaches with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t be stupid,” says Carver, completing the reunion with a one-armed hug and a hard slap on the back. “Thanks for picking me up.”

 

“Wait, wait, what is _this_?” laughs Hawke, grabbing Carver’s popped collar and folding it back down for him. “You’re all sloppy. College has changed you.”

 

“Hey!” Carver bats his hand away and carefully readjusts his collar. “It’s fine the way it is! Where’s Bethany?”

 

“She went to the bathroom, she should be—”

 

“ _CARVER_!”

 

Bethany reappears heralded by a shriek of excitement, throwing herself into Carver’s arms. Carver catches her neatly, swings her around once and sets her down, giving her a tight hug. She kisses his cheek and then immediately reaches up to pluck the hat off the top of his head.

 

“Hey! You’re both insufferable!”

 

“What _is_ this?” she demands, putting it on her own head the right way around. She grins and tugs on the sleeve of his shirt. “Aw, you’re wearing my present! At least you have _some_ good taste.”

 

Carver rolls his eyes. “All right, don’t start. Not so soon, anyway.” Quieter, more sincerely, he adds, “I’ve missed you, Bethy.”

 

“Aww, Carver!” Bethany opens her arms for another hug and he obliges her fondly; Hawke looks away for a moment. ‘ _I missed you_ ’s are just for Bethany, who, admittedly, responds to Carver’s emails in a timely manner and is Doing Something with her life. They shared an entire childhood that Hawke was displaced from by age and circumstance and Carver’s soft-hearted affection for his twin does not extend far enough to reach Hawke.

 

“Are we hungry, munchkins?” asks Hawke. “We can get something here, or we can order when we get home, your choice.”

 

“Chipotle,” the twins say simultaneously.

 

“Or we can pick up burritos on the way home, excellent,” says Hawke, nodding. “You didn’t check any luggage?”

 

“For a weekend?” Carver scoffs. “No!”

 

“Well, I don’t know,” says Hawke. “I’m impressed you managed to fit all your polo shirts and khakis into just one duffel bag.”

 

“I said don’t _start_ , Garrett!” groans Carver. “Where do you even get off? You’re wearing sweatpants.”

 

“We’re in an _airport_ ,” retorts Hawke. “Sweatpants are allowed in airports.”

 

“You weren’t on a plane! It doesn’t count.”

 

“To be fair, he’d normally be asleep right now,” interrupts Bethany. “He’s awake to pick up _you_.”

 

“Maybe he should find a job that doesn’t require him to work a completely opposing schedule to everyone else,” says Carver, rolling his eyes.

 

“Carver!” cries Bethany.

 

“ _Bethany_!” mimics Carver, making a face at her.

 

“Easy, children,” says Hawke mildly. “I’ve got your get-along shirt in the car if need be.”

 

“Oh, it’s fine, let’s just go, I’m _starving_ ,” sighs Bethany. “Carver, you’re going to meet Fenris!”

 

“So?” asks Carver belligerently, as they leave the building and head for the parking lot. “Garrett got a roommate, what’s the big deal?”

 

As Bethany turns to Hawke in the mid-afternoon sun, face set in a disappointed frown, Hawke feels his world shrink down to a pinprick around him. He hasn’t prepared for this at all and it’s his own fault for not realising this conversation was going to happen. This is the kind of information Bethany expects Hawke to share in all the emails he takes forever to send to Carver, and now everything is abruptly awkward.

 

Carver’s been in Florida for less than an hour. It’s a new record.

 

“About that,” says Hawke weakly. He turns desperate eyes on Bethany.

 

“Garrett has some news,” Bethany says cheerfully. “And he’ll catch you up—”

 

“Chipotle first,” says Hawke hurriedly. “News after.”

 

oOo

 

Later, when they’re eating enormous burritos in Hawke’s car in the parking lot of the Chipotle because Hawke refused to deliver his news in the actual restaurant and the twins refused to wait until they got home to eat—Hawke appetites are _demanding_ —Hawke swallows a bite of rice and beans and says, “Fenris isn’t just my roommate. We’re dating.”

 

Carver spits tortilla onto his lap and dissolves into hacking coughs. “ _What_?”

 

“Well, Carver, when two people really like each other—”

 

“Garrett,” groans Carver, wiping his mouth with a napkin and then balling it up and throwing it at Hawke. “I’m aware. But you! _You_ don’t date! You’re in a weird angry holding pattern with that ginger bastard!”

 

“You’ll be thrilled to learn that Brandon and I officially broke it off,” says Hawke, clearing his throat primly. “He moved to LA.”

 

“You broke it off?! When did _that_ happen?” demands Carver, gaping at him. “I asked you how you were! I asked if anything was new! I don’t know about you, but I think getting dumped by the most enduring fuck buddy in your life qualifies as _something new._ ”

 

“First of all, don’t say ‘fuck buddy,’” says Hawke. “Second of all, I didn’t get dumped. It was an amicable termination of an arrangement that had already come to a natural conclusion.”

 

Bethany and Carver glance at each other, then, faces kept carefully blank, and Hawke knows they just wordlessly traded confirmation that Hawke was, in fact, dumped via some sort of trans-dimensional shared twin headspace. “ _Sure_ ,” says Carver disbelievingly.

 

“Alright, I was a little dumped,” amends Hawke.

 

“I can’t believe any of this,” says Carver, setting his dinner down in his lap so that he can dramatically throw up his hands. “I actually thought you’d be hate-fucking each other for the rest of your lives.” He shudders briefly and shakes his head. “I don’t even want to think about this anymore. Are you telling me that when I meet Fenris, you’ll be introducing me to your _boyfriend_? For real? That you’re in a relationship?”

 

Hawke stares into the depths of his half-eaten burrito and sees forever. “...I think so?”

 

“They’ve only just gotten together,” says Bethany gently, forever the shining beacon of reason and light in Hawke’s life. “And they’re taking it slowly. Honestly, considering how Garrett’s been mooning over him for months now—”

 

“Yes, we don’t need to discuss any of that,” Hawke interjects firmly. “He’s coming to dinner with us on Saturday.”

 

“I can’t believe you!” Carver grabs another napkin just so that he can crumple it and bounce it off Hawke’s forehead. “I’ve told you everything that’s happened lately—”

 

“Not true! Carver got a tattoo,” blurts Bethany.

 

For a moment, there is silence in the car, as her words sink in. Carver’s face turns a deep, embarrassed red, while Hawke cycles through potential reactions as he tries to settle on how he’s feeling. “Please don’t tell me it’s on your arse,” is what he finally comes up with.

 

“Don’t be _vile_ ,” howls Carver, reaching across the car to smack Hawke in the arm. “It’s on my _shoulder_! It’s a dog! Everyone in my unit got one.”

 

“Oh,” says Hawke, brightening. “Well, if it’s a _dog_. Can I see it?”

 

“No,” says Carver. “I’m not taking my shirt off in the car. You can see it later.”

 

“Was getting inked together a manly bonding thing?” asks Hawke. “Are you now all blood brothers?”

 

“ _You_ are quite literally my only blood brother,” scoffs Carver, rolling his eyes.

 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” says Hawke. “I feel so close to you right now.”

 

“Shut it,” says Carver. “You’re such an idiot.”

 

“You’re _both_ idiots,” says Bethany. “I’m the only one that’s escaped unscathed.”

 

“She does have a point.” Hawke rolls up the foil from his burrito and wipes his hands on his thighs. “Bethany is the only remaining Hawke with any sense.”

 

“I have plenty of sense,” huffs Carver.

 

“Tell Garrett about how you can make your tattoo bark,” suggests Bethany.

 

“Oh _no_ , what?” groans Hawke. “Please don’t.”

 

“ _Bethany_!”

 

oOo

 

“I’m warning you now: Fenris won’t be home yet,” says Hawke as he readies his key to let them into the apartment. “He’s still at work.”

 

“Oh?” asks Carver, raising his eyebrows. “What does he do?”

 

“He—works in IT,” says Hawke haltingly, before exchanging a meaningful glance with Bethany, who frowns at him. “He’s an IT professional! It’s a very normal, adult job. Anyway, are you prepared for Dog?”

 

“Of course I’m ready," says Carver. “Release the hound.”

 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Hawke pushes open the apartment door and calls, “ _Dog_! Guess who’s here? Do you want to say hello to _Carver_?”

 

Dog’s explosive arrival is prefaced by a loud bark and the scrabbling of claws on linoleum; she crashes through the living room, her wagging tail knocking a book and an empty cup off the coffee table. Familiar with the traditional reunion body slam, Carver crouches down to find a lower center of gravity and then opens his arms, bracing himself for impact, but Dog still manages to knock him down as she collides with him, throwing her paws up over his shoulders so that all one hundred pounds of her weight hits him in the chest and stomach.

 

“Sweet _Jesus_ ,” wheezes Carver from his undignified sprawl on the floor, sputtering as Dog licks his face from chin to forehead. “Has she put on weight? Have you overfed her?”

 

“The vet said she’s fine, last time I took her!” protests Hawke. He bends to grip Dog by the collar, tugging firmly until she moves back far enough to allow Carver to sit up.

 

“She’s like a bear,” says Carver, petting Dog enthusiastically with long head to rump strokes. “Aren’t you. Does Garrett take you out for walkies? Hmm?”

 

“Actually,” says Bethany, waving. “I do.”

 

“Bethany walks her in the mornings,” says Hawke, before Carver can start. “And I walk her in the evenings and on weekends.”

 

Carver _hmms_ under his breath, gives Dog one last hard pat on the flank, and gets back to his feet. “If you had a regular schedule—”

 

“Why don’t I make some popcorn, and we watch a movie?” Hawke interrupts loudly, with a clap of his hands. “Pick something on the Netflix!” And then he retreats into the kitchen, plants his elbows on the counter, and doubles over with his face buried in his arms.

 

Hawke is infinitely grateful Bethany doesn’t follow him in. He can hear her in the living room, engaging Carver in a good-natured argument about movie selection, so Hawke takes advantage of the privacy to breathe steadily for a moment.

 

It’s only Carver, he tells himself.

 

His baby brother. Hawke changed his nappies, for fuck’s sake.

 

Hawke remembers vividly when the twins were born, when his mother sat him down on the sofa and introduced them to him one after the other for the very first time, Hawke holding them delicately like precious stones, afraid to break them. Carver first, the oldest by a handful of minutes, his little face screwed up red and teary, settling when Hawke stared into his blue eyes. Then Bethany, falling asleep in his arms the moment Hawke held her against his chest. He’d fallen in love with them immediately.

 

It had taken a small eternity for them to be old enough to play with him, but Hawke had been patient, and once they were small children that could walk and talk, he’d taken over all their firsts: Hawke taught them to blow bubbles, ride bikes, and build sandcastles. He spent his allowance on small toys and treats, took them for ice cream with a twin attached to each hand. It was Hawke that cleaned up scraped knees and kissed away small injuries.

 

Then, barely out of his teens, both parents gone, he’d made the decision to fully devote his life to caring for them. There was nobody in his life worth more than Bethany and Carver.

 

Hawke straightens up, pushing his glasses up to his forehead to wipe tears from his eyes. Sometimes, he tries to see himself through their eyes. It’s easy with Bethany, who’s freely affectionate and understands Hawke without needing him to speak the words. They both take after their father, easy-spirited and open-hearted.  

 

Harder with Carver, who has a wide stubborn streak inherited from their mother. Carver isn’t outwardly sensitive and his emotions are a private, hidden thing he keeps just for himself.

 

It took Hawke years to suss him out, to develop even a chance of understanding why he did and said the things he did, wishing desperately that he was privy to Bethany’s innate knowledge of Carver’s heart.

 

Now, Hawke knows him. He _gets_ Carver, even if he doesn’t seamlessly get _along_ with him, because Carver is his little brother and Carver feels responsible for him in a way Hawke honestly didn’t believe younger siblings could feel responsible for the person that raised them for half their life. Hawke didn’t have time to feel responsible for their parents, but Carver carries the weight of Hawke’s perceived failures on his shoulders and lets that dictate the way they navigate their relationship.

 

Honestly, sometimes, it just tires Hawke right the fuck out.

 

Why does it matter? Carver should be hung up on his own future, not Hawke’s. His reputation and self worth don’t tie into Hawke’s complete lack of ambition and paralyzing inability to act on his own needs and wants.

 

When it comes right down to it, Hawke doesn’t even _know_ what he wants. Whether he feels trapped or complacent or just can’t see whether he’s trapped by his complacency; he might be genuinely content or he might be lazy and scared. It’s hard to analyse his motivation in any real capacity when he’s busy avoiding self-reflection entirely because he just doesn’t want to get into it with Carver.

 

Peeling himself up off the counter, Hawke grabs popcorn from the cupboard and puts it into the microwave.

 

He’s just putting the kettle on for coffee when he hears keys turning in the door signaling Fenris’s return from work.

 

Abandoning the kettle, he arrives back in the living room just in time to hiss, “Please be nice!” at Carver before the door opens and reveals Fenris, standing there in black slacks and a dark green button-up shirt. He freezes briefly when he spots the three of them, then drops his keys in the bowl and shuts the door behind him.

 

“Hawke. Bethany, hello.” He pauses and transfers his gaze to Carver, and Hawke would swear his eyes narrow a little. “And Carver, I presume.”

 

Carver is oblivious to the potential animosity. He actually stands up when Fenris approaches and holds his hand out. “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Fenris.”

 

Fenris nods and accepts the handshake. “Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you from Hawke and Bethany.”

 

“All terrible,” says Bethany. “Drugs, fights, gambling… Right, Fenris?”

 

“Of course,” says Fenris, his mouth curving into a small smile. “I’ve been led to believe you’re part of a gang.”

 

Carver huffs. “Hilarious. You’re all so funny. It’s not like it’s my birthday tomorrow, or anything, and I flew across the country to be here.”

 

“Oh, Carver, please!” laughs Bethany. “You’re so serious. Don’t worry, no one will ever mistake you for a miscreant.”

 

“Luckily, we just know that you are,” says Hawke. “I forgot the popcorn. Excuse me while I rescue it. Don’t pester Fenris.” He aims the last sentence at Carver, who rolls his eyes. Then he retreats back into the kitchen.

 

“Hey, Fenris,” Hawke hears Carver say as he leaves, “I have a tattoo, too—”

 

The kitchen smells like burnt popcorn. Hawke retrieves the bag from the microwave and tears it open, the steam fogging up his glasses as he tips the contents into a large bowl. Normally he’d tell everyone to just eat around the burnt kernels, but he’s so reluctant to go back to the living room right away that he starts to pick the individual blackened pieces out by hand.

 

When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he pauses his popcorn culling and pulls it out to find a text from Varric.

 

 **varric** : what did I say, hawke

 

 **hawke** : you’ll have to be more specific

 **hawke** : you say a lot of things

 

 **varric** : what did I tell you not to do

 

 **hawke** : again

 **hawke** : help me out here

 **hawke** : narrow it down

 **hawke** : do i get a clue about what I did?

 

 **varric** : his name starts with f and ends with enris

 

 **hawke** : technically we did each other

 

 **varric** : i did not require the clarification

 

 **hawke** : let me put this into context

 **hawke** : and explain that brandon dumped me weeks ago

 **hawke** : i can’t remember if i told you that

 **hawke** : sorry

 

 **varric** : it’s cute you think isabela didn’t immediately tell me all about it

 **varric** : but i appreciate hearing it from you in typical belated fashion

 

 **hawke** : im going to be extremely real with you varric

 

 **varric** : oh no

 

 **hawke** : i have a lot of love-shaped fenris feelings

 

 **varric** : well

 **varric** : shit

 **varric** : awww damn

 **varric** : i should have known as soon as you told me you held hands

 

 **hawke** : i know

 **hawke** : he’s meeting carver right now

 

 **varric** : wow

 **varric** : you practically proposed and didn’t even tell me about it?

 **varric** : i’m hurt, hawke

 

 **hawke** : i’m sorry!!!! there’s been a lot going on

 **hawke** : feel free to liberally apply blame in my direction for as long as you need

 

 **varric** : wait, fenris is meeting carver? carver’s _here_?

 

 **hawke** : varric…………………..the twins are turning twenty tomorrow

 

 **varric** : no way

 **varric** : the little hawkes aren’t so little anymore

 

 **hawke** : s t OP

 

 **varric** : we’re so old

 

 **hawke** : shut up i’m going to weep

 

“Are you eating all the popcorn yourself?” demands Bethany, appearing right beside Hawke with her hands on her hips.

 

“You’re growing up so _fast_ ,” wails Hawke, throwing his phone onto the counter so that he can grab Bethany by the shoulders and pull her into a hug.

 

“Oh no, what’s happening?” cries Bethany, her voice muffled by Hawke’s chest. She thumps her fists gently against Hawke’s back. “Garrett!”

 

“Shhh,” whispers Hawke, cupping the back of Bethany’s head and holding her in place. “Shhh, I’m reminiscing.”

 

“It’s much too early in the day and also in your life to have a midlife crisis,” says Bethany. She pats Hawke firmly on the back. “Garrett. Free me.”

 

Hawke sighs and releases her. “We all fall prey to the terrible whims of the universe and the inexorable march of time.”

 

“Age is just a number,” says Bethany matter-of-factly, an eyebrow raised. “This birthday is an arbitrary milestone.”

 

“The end of your teens,” intones Hawke, wiping away a tear that isn’t wholly imaginary. “One chapter finishes, only for another to begin. It feels like just yesterday that—”

 

“You need to get a grip,” interrupts Bethany, cupping Hawke’s face in her hands and jerking him down to meet her stare. “It’s only been a few hours. You have to make it through the weekend still. If you start crying now, you’ll be too dehydrated to drive us to Orlando.”

 

“I’m feeling a lot of things,” says Hawke. “My emotions are very confused.”

 

“It’s a birthday,” repeats Bethany. “It means nothing. We’ve both already moved out. I just signed my first apartment lease. Carver is doing—army things. It’s already been happening for months.”

 

“Wait,” says Hawke. “You signed—”

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris from the doorway. “Bethany, please excuse us. I need Hawke’s help. In my room.” His cheeks go a little pink, but he sets his jaw and just stands there, waiting.

 

“Of course,” says Bethany, releasing Hawke’s face.

 

“What’s wrong?” asks Hawke, his brow furrowing as he follows Fenris out of the kitchen and down the hall into his bedroom. When they enter, Hawke is quite pleased to see Mr. Scribbles in residence on Fenris’s bed. Closing the door, Fenris turns to Hawke and crosses his arms.

 

“Fenris?” asks Hawke. “Is… Oh. I think I know. I shouldn’t have left you alone with Carver. Sorry.”

 

“Sit down,” says Fenris, nodding towards the bed.

 

“What’s—”

 

“ _Sit_.”

 

Letting out a sigh, Hawke sits down on the edge of Fenris’s unmade bed, looking up at him helplessly. After a moment, Fenris joins him.

 

“You can change your mind about tomorrow,” offers Hawke. “If you’re having second thoughts about spending two hours in the car with us. I would be, if I were you.”

 

Fenris huffs and shakes his head. “You seemed… uncharacteristically flustered.”

 

“I’m quite charmed you think it’s uncharacteristic,” says Hawke. “That means I hide my ongoing panic much better than I thought.”

 

“I merely thought you’d appreciate a moment alone,” says Fenris. “I…” He puts his hand on Hawke’s arm, squeezing briefly, and shakes his head again. “I wanted to help.”

 

“Fenris,” says Hawke, voice thick, and it’s all he can do not to choke on the tears lumping in his throat. He shuts his eyes, leaning in just close enough to Fenris to touch foreheads.

 

Turning his body to accomodate, Fenris embraces Hawke, burying his fingers in Hawke’s hair with one hand and wrapping his other arm around Hawke’s shoulders.

 

Hawke lets out a shaky sigh, relaxing in Fenris’s arms. “Thank you.”

 

oOo

 

The first thing Hawke does when he wakes up the next morning is roll over onto Fenris.

 

To be fair to Hawke, there is an enormous stuffed dog in the bed as well, which makes it difficult to determine space constraints in a double bed.

 

“Ow,” mumbles Fenris into the mattress.

 

“ _Ow_ ,” says Hawke, when Fenris jams his elbow between his ribs. “Ow, sorry. That’s your entire body. Jesus, I thought you were the dog.” Propping himself up over Fenris, Hawke drops an apologetic kiss onto the top of Fenris’s mussed head.

 

“I have been previously informed I am virtually indistinguishable from large stuffed toys,” says Fenris, squinting up at Hawke’s face.

 

“Not that dog,” says Hawke. “ _Dog_ dog. She sleeps with me sometimes. She’s probably the only creature on this earth that doesn’t notice when I accidentally roll over on top of her.”

 

“Ah, yes. The actual dog. A marginal improvement,” says Fenris, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. He’s very cute. Hawke likes his tangled hair and sleepy green eyes and the soft, vulnerable curve of his mouth as he peers up at Hawke, still too half-asleep to look anything but relaxed.

 

“Thanks for letting me sleep over in your bed,” says Hawke. “I had fun.”

 

Fenris snorts. “Truly, it was a hardship.”

 

“I know,” says Hawke, leaning down to brush the tip of his nose against Fenris’s cheek. A tentative question that Fenris answers by tilting up his chin; the resulting kiss is soft and lazy. “I snore, don’t I?”

 

“A little,” says Fenris. “Though evidently I survived the night.”

 

Hawke rolls onto his back and groans. “We should get the kids up. I need coffee. And I always make breakfast for the twins.”

 

“Bethany and Carver are lucky to have you, Hawke,” says Fenris quietly. “You… are a good person.”

 

“Oh, well. They’re stuck with me, unfortunately,” says Hawke. “They don’t really have a choice. But I’m…” He pauses to clear his throat. He wants to make sure Fenris knows he’s sincere. “Honestly, I’m lucky you didn’t run screaming the moment we met. I’m just… very, very lucky to have met you, Fenris.”

 

“I suppose we have Varric to thank for that,” says Fenris dryly. “He’ll want credit, soon.”

 

Hawke sits up, running a hand through his hair and stifling a yawn. “I’ll have a shirt made for him, or something.”

 

He can hear the shower running, which means one of the twins is already up. While his usual guess would be Bethany, Carver is accustomed to being awake at 5 am these days, and he’s likely the culprit this time. Getting up, Hawke searches the floor for his pants.

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris. “I… wanted to say. Meeting you…”

 

Hawke turns around to lock eyes with Fenris as he trails off uncertainly. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him again, try to ease the tension in his shoulders. But Hawke waits, because it’s not for him to interrupt.

 

“I have realised… Meeting you was very important to me,” finishes Fenris firmly. “I could not have said so, at the time. Perhaps I do owe Varric profuse thanks. Otherwise, I would not have moved in, and I wouldn’t have this, now, and...”

 

Of course this conversation is happening while Hawke is standing nearly naked in front of Fenris, pants in hand, and he can feel the flush creeping down his neck and chest, the heat rising in his cheeks.

 

It’s already been such a veritable roller-coaster of emotions that he can barely keep himself, once again, from crying; Hawke spends so much time perfecting the art of faux-emotion for dramatic effect that feeling actual things in such deep and rapid succession is like he’s being hollowed out from the inside. He is not equipped, as a person, to respond appropriately to such a raw display of honesty.

 

“I’m very grateful you did,” says Hawke, nodding hard and swallowing around the painful lump in his throat. “I’m very… I’m very grateful for you. Just. You as a whole. Everything about you.”

 

Fenris is looking very flushed. He nods, and clears his throat, and doesn’t seem to be able to say anything.

 

“I’m going to make waffles,” blurts Hawke. “And bacon. Yes?”

 

“Yes, please,” says Fenris.

 

Hawke puts on his pants and goes to make breakfast.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hawke takes fenris and the twins to downtown disney

Bethany and Carver are both already in the kitchen when Hawke enters, Bethany still in pyjamas and putting on the coffee machine while Carver sits freshly showered and fully dressed at the table.

 

“You still can’t legally drink, and you could already vote, but you’re one-fifth of a century old,” announces Hawke. “Happy birthday, my loves.” Bending to grip Carver’s shoulder, Hawke kisses the top of his head.

 

“It’s nothing, you sap,” mutters Carver, patting the back of Hawke’s hand.

 

Moving on to Bethany, Hawke pulls her into a tight hug, squeezing her close, before releasing her and planting a wet kiss on her cheek.

 

“Ewww!” laughs Bethany, wiping her face. “You couldn’t just leave it at being sweet, could you.”

 

“I’m plenty sweet,” says Hawke. “I’m making you waffles and taking you to Orlando. I’m _great_.”

 

“Oh, of course you are,” says Bethany reassuringly. “You’re the best big brother we could possibly have. Isn’t that right, Carver?”

 

“I don’t know, I still quite fancy the idea of having The Rock as a big brother,” says Carver.

 

“You’re such a wretch,” says Bethany, rolling her eyes.

 

“That’s all right,” says Hawke. “I’d quite fancy that too. What kind of waffles does my ingrate baby brother want for breakfast?”

 

“Blueberry, please,” says Carver without missing a beat.

 

“Chocolate chip for me!” cries Bethany. “I’m assuming there’s bacon, too, so I’ll wash some fruit.”

 

“And Carver will just sit at the table and judge us,” says Hawke, opening the cupboard to extract ingredients. “I’ve been working on my whisking technique. I hope you’ve been practicing your knife skills, Bethy.”

 

“You’re hilarious,” says Carver. “Why have you never considered a career in stand-up comedy?”

 

“Honestly? Your support is enough for me,” says Hawke, pressing a hand solemnly to his heart. “It’s your belief that fuels me. I don’t need money or fame.” Grabbing the mixing bowl, he starts to measure out flour for waffle batter.

 

“Just so we’re clear,” says Carver, because sometimes he is purposefully obtuse, “I would never support you actually pursuing a career in comedy.”

 

“Right, because we were both genuinely under the illusion that you might,” cackles Bethany, slicing oranges into a bowl. “God forbid you accidentally inspire Garrett to quit his job and try his hand at the financially unstable and unreliable amateur stand-up comedy circuit.”

 

“Don’t even joke,” groans Carver. “I don’t trust that he wouldn’t, just to spite me.”

 

“You seem to be operating under the delusion that I’m completely devoted to trolling you,” says Hawke, searching fruitlessly through the drawer of various kitchen implements to find his whisk. “And I think I would be, were I not so stunningly lazy.”

 

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” groans Carver.

 

“You should,” says Bethany sharply.

 

The twins lock eyes, engaging in a brief, furious staring contest until Carver looks away first and huffs. The sudden tension in the room eases and he mutters, “It was just a silly conversation. It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“Here,” says Bethany, shoving a bowl under his nose. “Eat an orange.”

 

Carver sullenly picks up an orange slice and bites it right off the rind, chewing like it’s a chore.

 

That’s Hawke’s little brother.

 

oOo

 

“I’m a little concerned that we still haven’t chosen a destination,” says Hawke, collecting his car keys from the bowl and checking the pockets of his basketball shorts for his wallet. He is wearing his new HOT MESS EXPRESS shirt, as promised, and Carver has already registered his vocal dislike three separate times in less than an hour.

 

“Downtown Disney,” says Bethany, at exactly the same time that Carver yells, “CityWalk!”

 

“Oh, excellent,” says Hawke. “We’re in complete disagreement already. As we’ve determined in previous years, I am a neutral party and my opinion doesn’t count. However, we have an extra person attending this year, so I put forth the motion that he be considered as a possible tiebreaker.”

 

Carver and Bethany both look over to Fenris as one.

 

Fenris, who is sitting on the couch innocently sliding his feet into his flip flops, freezes under the unexpectedly intense scrutiny of the twins. “I…” He turns wide eyes on Hawke, initially caught off guard enough to appear nervous, before quickly narrowing his gaze accusingly.

 

“Hang on,” says Hawke hurriedly. “Fenris has never been to either attraction. If you’re going to win his vote, you have to make a good pitch.”

 

“Downtown Disney has the Lego store,” says Bethany immediately. “There’s a dinosaur restaurant and ice cream and fresh doughnuts and _Lego_.” Bethany has pleading brown eyes and Fenris’s bias going for her. Hawke starts mentally reviewing the drive to Downtown Disney.

 

Carver knows he doesn’t have a chance. “Oh, fine,” he groans. “We’ll eat at T-Rex _again_.”

 

Fenris just looks faintly relieved that he doesn’t have to make the call himself.

 

“Dinosaurs!” cheers Bethany, throwing her arms around Carver.

 

“Starbucks first,” says Hawke. “Does everyone have sunscreen? Hats? Comfortable walking shoes?”

 

“Wait, if Bethany’s choosing the restaurant, do I at least get to sit in the front?” demands Carver.

 

“Good lord, no,” says Hawke quickly. “Fenris called shotgun already, didn’t you, Fenris?”

 

“Actually, I did not,” says Fenris flatly. “I will sit in the back with Bethany.”

 

Hawke presses his lips tightly together and stares at Fenris. Fenris stares right back.

 

“What a gracious sacrifice,” says Hawke through his teeth.

 

“Fenris understands how birthday privilege works.” Carver puts on his baseball cap, backwards. Hawke restrains himself from making fun of it.

 

As they’re heading down to the parking garage, Hawke gets a text from Fenris.

 

 **fenris** : It is his birthday.

 **fenris** : He can sit in the front.

 

 **hawke** : uuuuuuuuuuUUUGGGHHHHHHHH yes ok ur right

 

 **fenris** : I know.

 

“You’re getting the better end of the deal, honestly,” Bethany says to Fenris, deliberately pitching her voice so that Hawke can hear her. “I’m quiet, charming, and I smell good.”

 

“I would not doubt it,” says Fenris solemnly, with a barely-there little grin. “You are excellent company, Bethany.”

 

“Did you hear that?” asks Bethany, turning to beam at Hawke. “Fenris says I’m _excellent company_.”

 

“Fenris willingly spends time with _me_ ,” retorts Hawke. He sticks his tongue out at Fenris. “I’m not sure he’s the best judge of that.”

 

Fenris, somewhat surprisingly, sticks his tongue out at Hawke in retaliation. “Don’t listen to him, Bethany.”

 

“No danger of that.” Bethany winks at Hawke.

 

“Must we play this game?” mutters Carver.

 

“Carver’s right,” says Hawke. “We’ll all be much funnier after some more coffee.”

 

oOo

 

There’s a Starbucks on the edge of Kirkwall, right by the freeway exit, so Hawke makes a detour to pick up drinks.

 

“Summer usuals?” he asks Carver and Bethany, who both chorus yeses at him, before looking at Fenris in the rear view mirror. He’s a little disappointed in himself that he doesn’t already know Fenris’s Starbucks order. Hawke likes to know everybody’s everything.

 

Fenris hesitates and then says, “An iced coffee?”

 

“Milk? Soy?” asks Hawke, pulling into a parking space and turning off the engine. “Flavouring?”

 

“No thank you,” says Fenris. “Just black. Please.”

 

“All right,” says Hawke, getting out of the car. “I’ll just be a minute. Behave, all of you.”

 

“No, don’t,” he hears Bethany saying to Fenris, catching a glimpse of him pulling out his wallet as Hawke is shutting the car door. “He’ll refuse. He never lets us pay for stuff like this.”

 

“But you’re his family. I’m—”

 

Hawke doesn’t catch the rest, not meant to overhear it in the first place. He jogs to the door of the Starbucks, wondering what Fenris was going to say.

 

Maybe Bethany will spill the beans later.

 

oOo

 

His cup says ‘GARET’ on it.

 

“This isn’t even a name, is it?” he demands of Carver, gesturing at the cup as they sit at a red light. “Nobody spells their name like this.”

 

“They got mine right,” says Carver with a smirk.

 

“Mine, too,” pipes up Bethany.

 

Hawke watches Fenris check his own cup and then sees the traitor hide his grin. “My name as well,” he says, sipping his drink and meeting Hawke’s stare in the rear view mirror.

 

“Nobody asked you lot, did they!” huffs Hawke, turning his attention back to the road as the light turns green.

 

They’re about twenty minutes out from their destination and so far the drive has been relatively pain free. Carver spent the first half completely asleep, then woke up in time to complain about his now-warm previously-iced coffee, segueing easily into a blessedly brief lecture about how a better job would let Garrett buy a car with air conditioning. Then Hawke engaged him on a tangent about basic training, while Bethany and Fenris had a quiet conversation in the back of the car that mostly consisted of Fenris listening carefully as Bethany explained the plot of Borderlands.

 

“Didn’t you just miss our turn?” says Carver.

 

“What?” says Hawke. “No. Did I? Shit, isn’t it the next one?”

 

“I thought that sign said Downtown Disney.” Carver cranes his head to look back. “I bet you ten dollars you just missed it.”

 

“No gambling,” says Hawke shortly. “It’s a new car rule. No doubting Garrett’s navigational skills is number two on the list.”

 

“But you—”

 

“I don’t know what you want me to _do_ , Carver—”

 

“Do a barrel roll!” crows Bethany from the back, effectively cutting off the argument at the pass.

 

“Solid advice,” says Fenris approvingly.

 

“Thank you all for your valuable input,” says Hawke loudly. “I have no idea how I’ve managed to ever drive anywhere without it.”

 

“Look, there’s the exit,” interrupts Bethany, ever the voice of reason and calm. “Everything’s _fine_.”

 

“Well, we still need to find a place to park,” says Hawke, sighing. “Don’t get _too_ excited.”

 

“Oh god,” groans Carver, sinking down in his seat. “I’m taking another nap.”

 

oOo

 

Forty minutes later, Hawke finds a parking space in one of the overflow lots surrounding Downtown Disney. It’s mid-afternoon, by now, the sun hot in the sky.

 

Hawke shakes Carver awake and the four of them exit the car, Hawke pausing to stretch, all his joints popping.

 

The annual birthday excursion to Orlando has been tradition since their mother died. In the first year following her death, it had been Hawke’s desperate attempt to restore normality to their lives. Unable to afford park passes to Disney or Universal, he’d taken the twins to Downtown Disney for dinner and ice cream and a toy each. It had been a much-needed dose of levity and he thinks that all three of them had felt like a family again after a long, emotionally-draining year.

 

Completely unfamiliar with unprecedented success, Hawke clung to the newly-minted tradition, repeating the outing on subsequent birthdays. The twins have never once complained or refused; their birthday is the only event of the year that is unanimously attended.

 

“I can’t believe you called shotgun and then just had a nap,” says Bethany, shoving Carver as they walk. “You squandered it.”

 

“How dare you,” scoffs Carver. “It’s prime napping space. More leg room.”

 

“Oooh,” mocks Bethany. “More leg room for Carver’s deer legs!”

 

Trailing along behind them, mostly not paying attention, Hawke startles when Fenris touches the back of his hand, their knuckles brushing.

 

“No,” he says quickly, when Fenris flushes and moves to retreat, reaching out to gently recapture his hand, twining their fingers together. “Okay?”

 

Fenris nods and squeezes his hand, expression mostly unreadable behind his sunglasses, but he stays close despite the hellish Florida heat, the bare skin of his arm warm against Hawke’s body.

 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Hawke admits quietly.

 

“I am… pleased you invited me,” says Fenris. “I realise this is meant to be family only.”

 

Hawke bites his lip, debating on the relative merit of saying something aggressively intimate like ‘you’re family too’ at this stage in their relationship. He doesn’t need to ask Bethany what Fenris said in the car at Starbucks because he’s already guessed exactly what it was: ‘I’m not part of your family.’

 

Family, to Fenris, is already primarily characterized by guilt and unreasonable expectations. Family is something Fenris has actively avoided, keeping his sister on the other end of a phone call while he’s slowly come to terms with himself.

 

“Like I said,” says Hawke. “I’m so glad you’re here. Despite the seating betrayal.”

 

Fenris smirks. “It’s not my birthday, Hawke. I couldn’t in good conscience deny Carver.”

 

Hawke sighs. “I know.”

 

oOo

 

As if by some stroke of divine luck, dinner is an unparalleled success.

 

They’re seated within half an hour, the food is good, Hawke buys the twins dinosaur-themed alcoholic drinks, and the conversation doesn’t once drift near tense topics. In fact, the conversation doesn’t drift near Hawke at all; he lets Bethany, Carver, and Fenris talk, only contributing jokes and quips in appropriate moments. He sits and eats his burger and onion rings and lets the tension of the last two days drain out of him as Bethany forces Carver to go take selfies with her by the enormous T-Rex model.

 

Fenris excuses himself to the bathroom, and for a moment, it’s just Hawke at the table, surrounded by the buzz of conversation, the screams of small children, and the clatter of cutlery.

 

“I would like dessert,” says Bethany, dropping back into her seat a few minutes later. “The Chocolate Extinction, to share.”

 

“You don’t need to qualify it,” groans Carver reclaiming his own seat on Bethany’s left. “It says right on the menu: ‘enough for four’!”

 

“I could eat it all myself,” says Bethany. “You don’t know my life.”

 

“I know your life just about as well as you do,” says Carver, rolling his eyes.

 

“Ooh, look,” sighs Bethany. She’s watching something or someone across the restaurant. “Garrett, it’s the love of your life.”

 

“Troy Baker?” asks Hawke, turning his head to follow her gaze.

 

“I meant _Fenris_ , you idiot,” laughs Bethany, smacking him on the arm. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he.”

 

“Since when do you notice handsome men?” mutters Carver as he stares at Fenris, largely unimpressed.

 

Fenris has paused on his journey back from the bathroom to look up at the giant octopus hanging from the ceiling. Apparently unaware they’re all watching him, he pulls out his phone to snap a picture. Warmth suffuses Hawke’s belly and he grins stupidly.

 

“I can appreciate him aesthetically,” huffs Bethany. “It’s an objective statement.”

 

“Stop staring,” says Hawke quickly, “stop, he’s coming back!”

 

Bethany turns her attention to her phone while Carver sullenly transfers his mild glower to Hawke instead.

 

“Do you like it?” Hawke asks Fenris when he’s sat back down next to him. “The restaurant, I mean.”

 

“I think I like dinosaurs,” says Fenris. “I am enjoying… the ambience.”

 

Hawke can’t quite tell if Fenris is fucking with him, because quite often the ambience includes the piercing screams of children, but he seems largely relaxed and content.

 

“We’re going to order a giant chocolate dessert for everyone to share,” says Hawke. “Then I suppose we’ll take a walk? I still owe the twins a present of their choosing.”

 

“A Lego set,” says Bethany immediately, looking to Fenris and adding, “I collect them.”

 

“I haven’t decided yet,” says Carver, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

 

“Dessert first, anyway,” says Hawke. “Time to overdose on chocolate.”

 

oOo

 

Hawke should have expected it, really, after such an easy-going dinner. It had been the calm before the storm. Hawke family dinners tend to end up rather dramatic.

 

He’s standing with Carver outside the Lego store, looking out over the water while they wait for Bethany to make her decision, when Carver says, “I know what I’d like for my birthday.”

 

“Oh, did you see a novelty polo shirt or a baseball cap?” asks Hawke teasingly.

 

“No. I don’t want a physical thing,” says Carver, arms crossed.

 

He forces eye contact, Hawke shuffling from foot to foot under his scrutiny; this doesn’t bode well. “Lay it on me, then.”

 

“I don’t need anything,” continues Carver. “There’s only one thing that I really want, and it’s not something you can just… buy.”

 

“If it’s a hug you’re after, you could just ask,” says Hawke.

 

“Be serious for once,” chides Carver. “You always make jokes!”

 

Hawke bristles and snaps, “If I stopped being humorous and charming and decided to adopt a pedantic uptight personality then I’d just be _you_ , Carver.”

 

“Here we go,” groans Carver, throwing up his hands. “And I’m so awful, am I? Just because I’d like, for once, to hold a conversation with you that isn’t a nonsensical meandering of sarcasm and pithy quips that carefully avoids any topics that might remotely examine your goals and motivations? I just want to talk to you about your life and everything you refuse to do with it!”

 

Hawke stares at Carver and slowly lifts his palms to his face before blowing a loud, rude raspberry at him.

 

“You’re such a fucking child!” yells Carver, his cheeks flushing an angry red. “You insufferable prick!”

 

“ _Language_ , Carver!” mocks Hawke, glancing around them in a vague realisation that they’re having an argument in the midst of hordes of small children. “My ears are burning.”

 

“Good!” Carver kicks at a stone and turns his glare onto the waterfront. “Why are you like this? Is there an alarm that goes off in your brain the moment you might be required to look at yourself on a less-than-superficial level? I just want you to do something for yourself for once. I want you to promise you’ll seriously consider going back to school! That’s all I want!”

 

“That’s not really doing something for myself, is it,” says Hawke irritably. “That’s what _you_ want, that’s doing something for _you_.”

 

“Sure, twist it all around,” says Carver, rubbing at his face. “You deserve better, you can _do better_ for yourself, and you just don’t! You don’t even try! You’re just… stuck in a rut.”

 

“I tried very hard,” says Hawke hotly. “Pardon me if I’m still a little spent from all the trying I already did.”

 

“I mean _now_ ,” Carver barks, his frustration escalating. “What’s stopping you _now_?”

 

“I don’t know, a complete lack of ambition?” says Hawke, shrugging expansively. “I don’t _care_. I don’t need very much to fulfill me. I’m happy enough! I raised you both and you turned out great! What more do I need? What’s wrong with having that be the measure of my achievement in life?”

 

“You don’t need to take care of us anymore!”

 

“Perhaps not in the same way, but responsibility doesn’t just _end_ like that!” Hawke gestures dismissively. “I had to put everything into making sure the two of you could have as stable a childhood as I could manage! I can’t just suddenly… change, now. I’m a different person than I would have been had Mother not died. Our circumstances changed me, they changed my life.”

 

“You didn’t _have_ to do it, Garrett!” Carver has their mother’s eyes, and while Hawke has long ago come to terms with looking in the mirror and seeing his father’s face staring back at him, it’s harder to look at Carver sometimes and see Mother so clearly in Carver’s anger.

 

“I _know_ that, you knob!” says Hawke, exasperated. “What would you have done? If you’d been in my place, Carver, what would _you_ have done? How could I even consider trusting strangers to raise the only two people left in my life that I cared about? I couldn’t just dump you into foster care! They would have split you two up!”

 

Carver shakes his head, too upset for the words to properly penetrate. “You always act like you had no choice—”

 

“I _did_ have a choice—”

 

“—like it’s some huge _sacrifice_ , that we’re some _burden_ your life never recovered from!”

 

“—and I chose _you_!”

 

Carver’s blue eyes are hard. “Right,” he scoffs. “Of course! Garrett Hawke, selfless protector! Practically a martyr!”

 

“Oh, good lord, we’re back to this,” says Hawke tiredly. He paces, amazed they’ve been able to have this little meltdown without garnering unwanted attention, the crowds parting obliviously around their bubble of familial drama.

 

“It’s not your fault, Carver. I’m not your responsibility. You don’t need to feel guilty that you were _my_ responsibility. That’s just how things are. Even if I could have had someone else come take care of you, I would have refused. You were never a burden. If I didn’t have you both, I would have given up long ago.”

 

“I don’t understand why you’ve given up _now_ ,” says Carver, sounding awfully young.

 

“I haven’t! I haven’t given up, Carver, I’m…” Hawke sighs, running a hand through his hair.

 

They both look up when Fenris clears his throat. He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists, and his sharp gaze is fixed on Carver. “Bethany is waiting,” he says.

 

“Has she… overhead?” asks Carver, exchanging a guilty glance with Hawke.

 

“No,” says Fenris curtly. “She is busy choosing her gift.” He looks at Hawke, a peculiar tension to the set of his mouth. Hawke has absolutely no idea how to read his expression.

 

“I’ll go in and check her out, then. We can, um. Finish this later, Carver,” says Hawke, wanting literally anything but a continuation of this conversation. “I’ll be right back.”

 

In the Lego store, Bethany is holding two boxes, one in each hand, weighing them like gold. “This one,” she says when she sees Hawke, thrusting it at him. “Before I can change my mind.”

 

“I can get you both,” offers Hawke. “Carver has eschewed a present this year. You can take advantage.”

 

“Why?” asks Bethany, narrowing her eyes. “He loves stuff. He should be making you buy some terrible shirt in pastel colours.”

 

“I don’t know,” sighs Hawke, taking the other Lego set and carrying both to the checkout counter. “He’s become anti-consumer in his old age. Who can tell with Carver.”

 

Bethany watches him carefully as he removes his credit card from his wallet. “Garrett?”

 

How much of a disappointment is he in Bethany’s eyes, he wonders? She’s always seemed proud of him just for getting out of bed in time for work.

 

“It’s nothing, little one,” he says, giving her a smile and passing her the bag.

 

“Thank you,” she says, returning his grin and rising up on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

 

For a brief moment, Hawke is consumed by the very real worry that they’ll go back outside to find Fenris and Carver murdering each other.

 

What they do find isn’t much better.

 

Despite the distance between them and a lack of physical confrontation, Carver and Fenris are very clearly locked in a subdued but furious argument.

 

“What on earth?” asks Bethany, eyes widening when she realises what’s happening.

 

“Shit,” mutters Hawke, speeding up to reach them.

 

“—would do well to separate your misplaced guilt from your good intentions,” Fenris is snarling. “Wanting what’s best for Hawke does not allow you free reign to control his future.”

 

“I’m his _brother_ ,” Carver retorts. “His _family_. You’ve only been around a few months! What do you even know? You haven’t had to watch him just give up on _everything_ _—_ ”

 

“He hasn’t given up,” cuts in Fenris, his voice low and even. “He is scared to try. There is a difference between conscious surrender and fear of failure. That fear can be paralysing—”

 

“You think you know him better than I do?” demands Carver, his voice rising in pitch. “You’re really—”

 

“ _Carver_.”

 

It’s Bethany that jumps in to stop them, Hawke standing frozen mere steps away. Fenris doesn’t even look at them, dropping his head to stare at the ground instead, face flushing, while Carver snaps his head to look at Bethany, embarrassed and angry.

 

“You stop this right now!” she says, voice wavering only a little as she fixes a hard stare on her twin. “What is going on here?”

 

“My apologies,” says Fenris quickly. “It was not my place.”

 

“Why did Fenris need to stand up for Garrett?” Bethany asks Carver, reaching out to squeeze Fenris’s shoulder reassuringly. “I thought you weren’t going to do this today, Carver! Just one day!”

 

“Bethany,” says Hawke weakly. “Let’s just… go, shall we?”

 

Fenris looks up, then, to meet Hawke’s gaze, and there’s something questioning in his eyes that Hawke doesn’t know how to parse as anything other than the sense that he’s let Fenris down somehow.

 

“Yeah, let’s just pretend it never happened,” mutters Carver. “Let’s never resolve anything.”

 

“I’m sorry,” says Hawke tensely. He honestly wants to vomit. “I’m _sorry_ , Carver.”

 

“You don’t need to _apologise_ _—_ ” says Fenris hotly.

 

“ _You_ shouldn’t interfere!” Carver protests. “Why are you even—”

 

“I invited him to be here,” interrupts Hawke. “I want him to be here, it’s something I _wanted_ and he said yes! I’m amazed he even stuck around this long, considering what a clusterfuck of a weekend this is turning into, but he has. Stop speaking to him like he’s some sort of interloper, _please_.”

 

Carver bites his lip and furrows his forehead, nodding once. “I… you’re right.” Glancing at Fenris, he nods gruffly. “I’m sorry, Fenris. That was unfair of me.”

 

“I am not the one that requires your apology,” says Fenris evenly. “Though it is appreciated.”

 

“This is ridiculous,” says Bethany anxiously. “Can we please not do this here?”

 

“If I promise you to make an effort, is that enough?” asks Hawke, turning to Carver. “I’m trying, Carver. I want you to be happy, I want you to be proud—” He cuts himself off, embarrassed. “I’m _trying_. I never had to think about what I wanted for the longest time beyond keeping you both safe, do you understand that? I don’t fucking _know_ what I want!”

 

“You know what? You’re right,” says Carver stiffly. “Let’s just go.”

 

Hawke’s sure that one day, they’ll look back on the time they tore each other to pieces outside the Lego store at Downtown Disney and laugh about it, but right now, edges still raw, Hawke can’t think of a single funny thing about this evening.

 

oOo

 

It’s difficult to escape the feeling of monumental failure when Carver is still sleeping on the couch in the living room so Hawke holes up in his bedroom with his laptop and makes several impulse purchases on Steam to occupy himself.

 

He can hear Bethany’s voice in the other room, too low to make out the words, and the occasional muted rumble of Carver’s replies, so he puts on his headphones and tries to pretend he’s not desperately curious about the content of their conversation.

 

At some point, he falls asleep, jerking back into wakefulness just past midnight to a completely dark bedroom and an extremely full bladder.

 

In the living room, Carver and Bethany are asleep on the fold-out couch. Hawke feels a pang of guilt for displacing Bethany from her previous sleeping arrangements in Hawke’s bed, but facing absolutely anyone earlier, even Bethany or Fenris, had seemed impossible. Seeing the twins like this reminds him of when they were much younger, just before dad had died, and he’d built them a bunk bed. For months, Carver had climbed down from the top bunk to sleep on the bottom bunk with Bethany.

 

Hawke snuffles and wipes his eyes, watching them sleep for a moment. Then he turns around and goes to the bathroom, where he takes a piss and washes his hands, staring at his sad, tired face in the mirror and scratching his beard speculatively. He shouldn’t even be asleep right now. This entire weekend has muddled his sleep schedule, ensuring his return to work on Monday night will be a thoroughly hellish experience.

 

Carver’s flight tomorrow isn’t until the afternoon. If he tries to stay up, he has time to sleep in.

 

On his way back to his bedroom, he notices the light under Fenris’s door.

 

His soft knock goes unanswered, Hawke wondering if maybe Fenris fell asleep with the light on, but just as he’s about to turn away to go back to his room, the door opens.

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris, his eyebrows rising into the messy fringe of his hair. “Are you all right?”

 

“Can I, um. Come in?” asks Hawke, rubbing his elbow.

 

“Of course,” says Fenris, stepping back to let him in and closing the door behind him. He’s mostly naked, wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else, and judging by the nest of pillows and blankets balled up at the head of his bed with Mr. Scribbles and the laptop lying on the mattress, he’s been watching movies.

 

“Hawke?”

 

“Do you mind if we just…” Hawke gestures to the bed. “Lie down?”

 

Fenris gives him a small smile.

 

They end up cuddled together, Hawke lying on his back with an arm around Fenris’s shoulders as Fenris scoots up to rest his head on Hawke’s chest, leg tucked over Hawke’s hip.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Fenris, breaking the silence. “I hope I did not… overstep. It was not my intention to offend.”

 

“I’m not offended,” says Hawke. “I’m… mostly just flattered. It’s me that should be apologising, anyway. I can’t believe you ended up in the middle of all that. The conversation about you acting as a buffer between us was meant to be a _joke_.”

 

“I still don’t think you have anything to apologise for,” mutters Fenris. “While Carver is mostly well-intentioned, there is a selfish bent to his desire to see you succeed. He no longer wants to feel responsible for putting your life on hold.”

 

“He was a child,” says Hawke. “There’s nothing any of us could have done. How the hell did he get saddled with that guilt?”

 

Fenris shrugs against him. “As you said, he was a child. A child that suffered the loss of both parents.”

 

Hawke stifles a yawn into his fist, trailing his fingers down through the tangle of Fenris’s hair. They lie in silence for a while, Hawke drifting on the edge of sleep.

 

“I spoke to Varania today,” says Fenris quietly.

 

“Oh? How did that go?” mumbles Hawke, forcing himself to open his eyes.

 

“I sent her a photo of the restaurant,” says Fenris. “The octopus. She is a marine biologist, and I… don’t know. I thought she’d be pleased that seeing it made me think of her.”

 

Hawke doesn’t know where Fenris is going with this. He’s hoping the next sentence won’t be, ‘She was offended I’d send her something so anatomically inaccurate and hung up on me’. “Did she like it?”

 

“She cried,” admits Fenris. “I was concerned I offended her. Or said something wrong, as I so often do.”

 

“But she was happy?”

 

“Yes. She was touched. I wasn’t expecting for her response to please me, as well.” Fenris _hmm_ s under his breath, absently trailing his fingers down Hawke’s chest to curl in the dark hair beneath his navel. “We talked for an hour. She asked where I was, and who I was with, so I told her about you.”

 

“Oh dear,” chuckles Hawke. “Is she on the next flight from Seattle to come rescue you?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Fenris. He props himself up to glare at Hawke, eyes narrowed sleepily, his fringe falling into his eyes, before he gives up and flops back onto Hawke’s chest.

 

“It was a joke,” protests Hawke.

 

“It was a poor one,” says Fenris firmly. He nestles down, tucking his head under Hawke’s chin. His voice is very quiet when he says, “I don’t need to be rescued from the life I’m choosing to live, Hawke.”

 

Hawke makes a small, involuntary sound. He’s proud when he doesn’t cry, even though it’s late and he’s tired, and the threads of his emotions are thin and fragile and prone to breaking. But Fenris is a warm, solid weight against him, a tangible reminder that Hawke is someone’s chosen family.

 

When he first started working as a nursing assistant, just after he’d dropped out of college, Hawke had assumed he’d end up eventually training to become a nurse. It had seemed like a logical path.

 

Ten years later and he’s still thinking about it, no closer to a decision or, god forbid, a concrete plan of attack.

 

He waits until he thinks Fenris is asleep in his arms before he says, “Do you think I’d make a good nurse?”

 

Then, when Fenris predictably says nothing, Hawke can pretend it’s a polite ‘no’.

 

Hawke is a coward.

 

oOo

 

In the morning, Hawke lets everyone fend for themselves.

 

He ventures out of Fenris’s bedroom twice, once to use the bathroom, and again to visit the kitchen. When he’s retrieving food, he peeks into the living room and finds the twins still on the fold-out in their pyjamas, watching Netflix on the PS4. They’re not speaking at all, but Bethany is playing on her phone while Carver plaits her hair into messy braids. Dog is asleep at the foot of the mattress, snoring softly.

 

Tamping down the brief stab of envy, Hawke finishes foraging for breakfast and returns to Fenris.

 

“They’re awake,” he says, as he closes the bedroom door. “Getting some twin time in before Carver’s flight.”

 

“Have you spoken to him?” asks Fenris. He’s slumped right down in bed with his laptop balanced on his chest, screen tilted down so he can watch videos without moving any part of his body or sitting up against the headboard.

 

“No, and I likely won’t,” says Hawke, reclaiming his spot next to Fenris. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had this argument, Fenris.”

 

Fenris furrows his brows. “The issue is still unresolved.”

 

“The _issue_ is fabricated entirely by Carver,” says Hawke, taking a bite of his peanut butter toast. “There’s nothing the matter with the way I live my life and I’m not concerned about my future.”

 

Fenris hesitates. “No. I’m not suggesting you should be. You don’t wish to speak to Carver before he leaves?”

 

“I don’t know what to say to him,” says Hawke. He licks peanut butter off his finger and shrugs. “I don’t know if there’s really a point.”

 

Closing the lid of his laptop, Fenris moves it aside and sits up in bed. “Your life is your own, Hawke. The decision to make a change will only ever belong to you.”

 

“Yesterday… you said I was scared,” says Hawke. “I heard you arguing with Carver.”

 

Fenris’s cheeks colour and he scowls at Hawke before half-turning to punch his pillow into the correct shape to tuck behind his back. “I know fear,” he says shortly. “I recognise fear in others because I have become intimately acquainted with feeling powerless and empty. You avoid doing things unless you can anticipate a clear outcome. I understand the desire.”

 

Hawke would have stayed in a holding pattern with Bran for the rest of his life if Bran hadn’t ended things between them. It’s not like Hawke doesn’t know himself; he said as much to Isabela, when she suggested Hawke ask Fenris out. If Fenris hadn’t made the first move, Hawke would have never gone beyond overtures of awkward friendship.

 

“I’m a coward,” says Hawke, giving voice to last night’s insecurity.

 

“You are cautious,” says Fenris firmly.

 

“Will you come to the airport with us?”

 

“I think it would be better if I stayed home,” says Fenris carefully.

 

“Traitor,” sighs Hawke without any accusation in his voice. “At least Bethany will be there.”

 

oOo

 

Bethany bails out five minutes before they’re meant to leave.

 

“Are you going to wear your pyjamas to the airport?” asks Hawke, frowning as he digs his keys out of the bowl. “I’m not judging you, mind.”

 

“No,” says Bethany. “I’m not coming.” She takes Hawke by the elbow and tugs, and he obediently, instinctively ducks his head down so that she can kiss him on the cheek.

 

Hawke blinks, spluttering. “You’re not going to see off your brother?”

 

“We spent the whole morning together,” says Bethany. She has the lopsided braid to prove it. “We’re fine. I already said goodbye.”

 

Carver appears, then, showered and dressed, duffel bag over his shoulder. He meets Hawke’s eyes and then looks away. “I’m ready.”

 

“Right,” says Hawke, giving Bethany a pleading look.

 

She purses her lips and does not soften. When Carver stops beside her, Bethany turns to him for a hug and they embrace tightly, Carver briefly lifting her off her feet. “See you,” she says easily. “Remember what we talked about.”

 

Carver rolls his eyes. “Alright. Bye, Beth. Talk to you tonight.”

 

Realistically, Hawke knows Fenris and Bethany both refused to come because they assumed it would let Hawke and Carver talk during the drive.

 

Only they don’t speak.

 

They’re in the car for  nearly forty minutes and they don’t exchange a single solitary word.

 

Hawke puts on the radio and Carver looks out the window and they ignore each other. When they reach the airport, Hawke’s tempted to just drop Carver off without even parking the car if this how he’s going to be, but it’s not like Hawke tries to reach out, either.

 

So he parks the car and walks Carver in. There, they exchange their first words since the argument yesterday: Hawke heads for the check in desk and Carver says, “I did that already. I can go straight to security,” and Hawke says, “Oh.”

 

Outside security, Carver stops, turning to Hawke. “Well. Thanks for driving me.”

 

Hawke nods miserably. “It’s nothing. I’m… I’m glad you came.” All his careless bravado leaves him abruptly and he can’t stand to let Carver go again without a hug, so before Carver can protest he wraps his arms around him, tucking his chin over his little brother’s head and thumping his hand against his back.

 

“You’re so obnoxiously tall,” Carver mutters into Hawke’s chest, patting him gingerly in return. “You’re embarrassing me. Let go, come on.”

 

Hawke releases him and sighs. “Listen, I…”

 

Carver shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, let me. There’s something I should…” His shoulders tense and then relax slowly, as if he took a long, slow breath. “It’s enough,” he says at length. “You asked if it would be enough for me, if you tried to make an effort, and… It’s enough, Garrett.” He pauses, tilting his head and blowing out a noisier breath, blue eyes fixed a little left of Hawke’s shoulder. “You’re enough.”

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” mutters Hawke. He feels like he’s just been punched in the stomach. “You’re right, you know. I’m lazy. I don’t even bother to try. You’re _right_.”

 

“I’ll be sure to record this in my diary as the day Garrett admitted I was right,” says Carver dryly. “Are you crying?”

 

“A little,” admits Hawke. He wipes quickly at his eyes and laughs.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Carver. “For ruining the weekend. For… for putting so much pressure on you. I do want you to be happy. It’s been… it’s been good, seeing you with Fenris.”

 

“I’m happy,” says Hawke. “He makes me feel like I’m not a complete failure.”

 

Carver nods and looks over his shoulder at the security line. “I should, erm. I should go.”

 

“Of course,” says Hawke, clapping him on the shoulder. “Have a safe flight.”

 

“There’s something else I should say,” says Carver. “Before I go.” He hesitates, colour high in his cheeks. “It’s something I should have said ages ago. I should never have let you think…” He huffs, irritated, before meeting Hawke’s eyes and saying, “I am proud of you, Garrett. I’m proud you’re my brother.”

 

Sensitive enough to realise there’s no way for either of them to escape this with dignity intact if Carver waits for Hawke to reply, he just nods firmly, message delivered, and turns to enter the security line, leaving Hawke standing there with a lump in his throat.

 

Hawke finds a bench and sits down. Then he puts his head in his hands.

 

He does not actually break down and cry alone in the airport, but he comes pretty damn close.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hawke makes an important decision and the story comes to a gentle close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a final thanks to starsandgraces and psikeval for their endless beta patience <333
> 
> okay, this is the end. 
> 
> this was my first experience posting a chaptered fic and i just wanted to say thanks for making it so cool and supportive. it was delightful to see the same usernames in the comments each week, taking the time to leave me lovely feedback. thanks for reading and recc'ing it, i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did <3

By the time Hawke gets back home from the airport, he’s ready to put his entire life on hold to hibernate for the rest of the summer.

 

The living room is tidy, fold-out couch put away, and there’s no sign of Fenris or Bethany.

 

“Hello?” he calls.

 

“In the kitchen, Hawke,” replies Fenris.

 

Hawke finds him at the sink washing dishes in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a worn red hoodie that Hawke thinks is probably his, judging by how big it is on Fenris. “How did it go?” asks Fenris.

 

“I’m not convinced I didn’t dream the whole thing,” admits Hawke, leaning against the counter. “It was… what’s the opposite of terrible? How do you describe it when something actually goes not… wrong?”

 

“I’ll get a thesaurus,” says Fenris dryly. “Does this mean you actually talked?”

 

“I’m as surprised as you are,” says Hawke. “I forgive you for not coming along. Where’s Bethany?”

 

“She went out to pick up dinner,” says Fenris.

 

“A peace offering,” says Hawke. “I forgive her, too.”

 

Fenris rolls his eyes. “How magnanimous of you.”

 

“I know. I’m a regular saint,” says Hawke. “You, um. So are you, incidentally. Thank you for everything this weekend. Can I…” Clearing his throat, Hawke straightens. “Can I kiss you?”

 

Fenris doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

 

Sliding a hand down to curl around Fenris’s hip, Hawke uses his free hand to cup his jaw, tipping his face up gently. Fenris turns into it, leaning up to meet Hawke’s kiss.

 

Forgetting himself in his efforts to draw Hawke down to a manageable height, Fenris buries wet, soapy fingers in Hawke’s hair and tugs him down. When Hawke makes a noise of protest at the water dripping down his neck Fenris just parts Hawke’s lips with a firm press of his tongue and kisses him more deeply.

 

“I suppose there isn’t time to take this to the bedroom,” mumbles Hawke when they part.

 

“Bethany will likely return soon,” agrees Fenris. He licks his lips and brushes a lock of Hawke’s hair out of his eyes. “Though I’m free later tonight, if your schedule allows.”

 

Hawke enjoys the pleasant shiver of anticipation that trembles down his spine.

 

They’ve been taking things slowly, which is pretty much a necessity for them both, at this point in their lives; Hawke appreciates being able to exist in Fenris’s presence as himself first and a romantic partner second. It’s been so humiliatingly long since he’s dated that he’s not confident in his abilities to maintain a relationship at a pace anything other than ‘sedate’.

 

“I think I can probably squeeze you in,” says Hawke, grinning.

 

Ten minutes later, Bethany returns with pizza.

 

“Oh, you’re back!” she says, dropping the boxes on the table and shaking her hair off her bare shoulders. “You still like anchovies, right? You haven’t outgrown that particular oddity?”

 

“Nobody outgrows _anchovies_ , Bethy,” says Hawke.

 

She makes a face. “Well, I ordered them on one of the pizzas. The other one is free from anchovy taint. I’m glad you’re still in one piece. Carver texted me from the airport and gave me the impression you two had as much of a breakthrough as you ever will.”

 

“He said that?” says Hawke, eyebrows raised.

 

“No,” says Bethany. “He said, and I quote, ‘talked with garrett and you’re right, i’m a bit hard on him. don’t ever tell him i said this,’ so I inferred there were probably tears on your end.”

 

“Not outwardly,” huffs Hawke. “I can keep it together in public.”

 

“Garrett cries at commercials,”  Bethany says to Fenris. “His number one weakness is anything with animals, particularly dogs.”

 

“She’s acting like she and I don’t share this personality trait,” says Hawke. “When I once found her weeping alone in the living room at 2 am with all the lights off, because she’d just finished a sad video game.”

 

“And Carver?” asks Fenris, getting plates from the cupboard.

 

“I can count the number of times he’s cried on one hand,” says Bethany. “His face just goes all red and he gets angry instead. Though once, when we were little, we went on a holiday, to the seaside.”

 

“Brighton,” says Hawke to Fenris. “Before dad died and we moved here.”

 

“And Garrett bought us ice cream cones, remember?”

 

“The kind with a flake,” says Hawke. “They don’t do that here.”

 

“And Carver dropped his in the sand,” says Bethany. “He cried until I shared mine with him. He never used to cry over things like that, but he cried then. I just remembered it.”

 

“You were only small,” says Hawke. “Five? And then, well, it wasn’t long after that….” He trails off, unsure why he’d feel compelled to point out their dad died within a year of that holiday, because Bethany knows it as well as he does. “I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer. No flakes, but maybe it’ll be close enough.”

 

“I never say no to ice cream,” says Bethany with a soft smile.

 

oOo

 

After dinner, Hawke drives Bethany back to her dorm.

 

He doesn’t go directly home after she’s disappeared inside with a wave and a blown kiss, instead driving to the waterfront and finding a bench to sit on while the sun sets and waves crash against the shore.

 

Eventually, he pulls out his phone and contacts a neutral party.

 

 **hawke** : do you think i’d make a good nurse?

 

 **anders** : hello hawke…

 **anders** : is this a trick question?

 

 **hawke** : no

 **hawke** : i’m being serious

 **hawke** : you’re a nurse and you know me pretty well

 **hawke** : do you think i can do it?

 

 **anders** : all right hang on if you want a serious reply i need to make a quick list of pros and cons

 

 **hawke** : ha ha

 **hawke** : i’m not asking for a thesis, anders

 

 **anders** : i’m kidding, you twit

 **anders** : honestly?

 **anders** : sure

 **anders** : you aren’t squeamish in the slightest, you’ve observed nurses in action for a decade, and you’re a compassionate person who is deeply committed to providing quality healthcare

 

 **hawke** : i dropped out of college ten years ago

 

 **anders** : so?

 **anders** : i assume you want to stay here in kirkwall

 **anders** : i can go over the prerequisites with you and make a list of the college courses you’d need to take

 **anders** : it wouldn’t be a particularly quick process, but once you have those courses, you can begin applying to nursing programs

 **anders** : you could cut your hours at the home and take most of the prereqs part time so you don’t have to stop working entirely

 

 **hawke** : you really think i could do this

 

 **anders** : why do you think you can’t?

 _Because it’s scary_ , Hawke doesn’t say. _Because I don’t want to be a failure and you can’t fail if you don’t try. Because…_

 

 **hawke** : i’m notoriously lazy and terrible at most things

 

 **anders** : i mean i won’t lie and say you didn’t once give yourself a concussion by falling over

 **anders** : but you’re very much not terrible at your job

 **anders** : if you want this, i can help

 

 **hawke** : this is getting slightly Too Real for me so i’m going to bail out of this conversation

 **hawke** : thank you though

 **hawke** : i’ll speak to you monday

 

 **anders** : bring me a sandwich

 

 **hawke** : i will bring one not because you told me to but because i’m a good person

 

It’s a pretty sunset, the kind of dappled pink sky that burns into a deep orange on the horizon before fading into dusk.

 

Hawke sits and watches the night sky change overhead, listening to snatches of conversation as people pass him by.

 

oOo

 

While Hawke’s gone, Fenris goes on some sort of cleaning rampage and does all the laundry.

 

Hawke gets back to clean sheets on all the beds and clean dishes, the garbage already brought down to the dumpster.

 

“What’s all this?” asks Hawke dumbly, standing in the doorway to his bedroom and staring at his freshly-made bed. Dog’s already commandeered it, sprawled out on the foot, her feathery tail draped over the side.

 

“I washed mine, so I did yours, too,” says Fenris, appearing beside him.

 

“Was I really gone that long?”

 

Fenris shrugs. “Perhaps two hours.”

 

“I went to the waterfront,” says Hawke, wandering into his room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just sat for a bit. I didn’t realise how long.”

 

Fenris settles next to him, hesitating before he asks, “Are you all right?”

 

“Honestly?” Hawke chuckles. “I’m… much better than I’ve been in a long time.”

 

Even sitting next to him like this, Hawke wants to get closer to Fenris. Hawke just _wants_. He turns towards him and Fenris mirrors the motion of Hawke’s body, reaching out to slide his hand up into Hawke’s hair.

 

Each kiss that follows is a demand, firm and eager; Hawke ends up on his back, Fenris straddling his hips as he cups Hawke’s face.

 

“Hawke,” he says roughly, pulling back to peer at Hawke with large green eyes.

 

“Mm,” mumbles Hawke, brushing his fingers against Fenris’s cheek. “Yes.”

 

“The dog.”

 

“The dog?”

 

“I would prefer… she not be in the room, let alone _on the_ _bed_ right now.”

 

“Oh god, of course,” groans Hawke. He stretches out with his foot and pokes Dog with it. “Dog, _out_.”

 

Dog whines lazily and doesn’t budge. She’s curled up on the corner of the bed with her back to Hawke and Fenris as they’ve slowly taken up more and more of the mattress.

 

Hawke’s never actually had to deal with this before; when he had sex with Bran, it was never at Hawke’s apartment. Unfortunately, Dog is a stubborn creature that develops selective hearing when she knows Hawke is asking her to do something she doesn’t want to do.

 

“Come on,” he says more loudly, “Dog, get _out_.”

 

“She is not leaving,” says Fenris, struggling to keep the laughter out of his voice.

 

Hawke groans, half turning to grab a worn and faded stuffed bear from under his pillow. “She loves this thing and she’s never allowed to have it,” he says to Fenris. “Dog, look! Go fetch Professor Jumble!”

 

Then he hurls the bear into the hallway, the flying toy followed instantly by Dog as she scrambles off the bed.

 

By some stroke of luck, she clips the half-open door as she skids out of the room and it shuts behind her.

 

“I can feel bad about that later,” says Hawke, wrapping his arm around Fenris’s lower back. “Right now, I’d prefer to continue what we were doing.”

 

Fenris scrunches up his nose and leans in for another kiss. “I’m inclined to agree.”

 

The thing Hawke is realising about Fenris is that he’s much stronger than he looks. Settled comfortably on top of Hawke like this, his reassuring weight is not a negligible thing. Hawke could lift him, sure, but only if Fenris let him, judging by the ease with which he traps one of Hawke’s wrists against the mattress as he braces himself above him.

 

Hawke likes the pressure, content to tip his head back and close his eyes, letting Fenris kiss him leisurely.

 

In their physical relationship, Bran had been the natural leader, falling into the role with relish as soon as he realized that Hawke was receptive to being held down and given orders. Hawke’s size and willingness to be used had worked for them both.

 

And while Hawke has absolutely zero interest in emulating his relationship with Bran when he’s with Fenris, it’s easy to submit full control of the pace and progression of sex to Fenris.

 

It puts them both at ease while they cover unfamiliar ground and honestly, Hawke is plenty happy to give and receive kisses for as long as it takes for Fenris to settle into the moment.

 

Fenris sits back on his heels eventually, wiping the back of his hand across his swollen mouth. His ears and cheeks are flushed and he blinks down at Hawke owlishly. “Your beard,” he mumbles.

 

“I know,” sighs Hawke, breathing steadily to slow the excited beat of his heart. “It’s magnificent.”

 

“It’s _itchy_ ,” chides Fenris with a small smile. He kisses Hawke’s forehead. “And, I suppose, it is magnificent, too.”

 

“You flatter me,” says Hawke, resting his free hand on Fenris’s hip.  

 

“With very subtle encouragement, yes,” retorts Fenris, snorting. The crooked set of his smile emerges in response to Hawke more often than not, these days, and his fondness soothes Hawke to an immeasurable degree.

 

It’s a long way off from his initial impression of Fenris, which had mostly just been ‘hot and angry.’ The ‘hot’ part hasn’t changed, but he’s happy to admit he was wrong about ‘angry’.

 

“You are staring,” says Fenris, arching an eyebrow at him.

 

“It’s difficult not to, darling,” says Hawke easily.

 

Fenris huffs, pursing his lips as his flush deepens. Shifting his weight from one knee to the other, he reflexively squeezes Hawke’s wrist and leans down for another slow, lingering kiss. When he pulls back, they’re both panting.

 

With a sigh, Fenris curls forward until he’s no longer kneeling on the mattress, lowering his body until he’s lying chest to chest with Hawke, burying his face in the crook between Hawke’s neck and shoulder.

 

“Garrett,” Fenris says quietly, speaking right next to Hawke’s ear.

 

Hawke raises his arms and wraps them around Fenris, shivering pleasantly. “Yes, love.”

 

“I am happy too.”

 

Hawke doesn’t quite know what the appropriate response is. If he opens his mouth, he might be overwhelmed by tears. He hugs Fenris tighter and rubs vague, abstracted shapes into the small of his back.

 

“And I would like to have sex,” adds Fenris. “I would like you to fuck me.”

 

Hawke sucks in a startled breath, going very still. “You’re certain?”

 

Fenris props himself up so he can look down at Hawke again, his expression set stubbornly, his tongue wetting his lips before he says, “I would not request what I did not want, Hawke.”

 

Shuddering in anticipation, Hawke nods eagerly. Far be it from him to refuse Fenris in anything.

 

“And you?” asks Fenris, voice low. His gaze is intent, roving over Hawke’s face.

 

Confused, Hawke furrows his brow. “Me?”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“Am I certain that I’d like to have sex with you again?” asks Hawke.

 

“You’ve been very careful to ensure my comfort,” says Fenris. “I’d like to extend the same courtesy. I don’t want you to feel… like my needs supersede yours.”

 

“I really don’t,” says Hawke quickly, his face heating up. He’s never really had to explain this to anyone before. “I’m… quite easily pleased, Fenris. I am completely serious when I say that. I’m happiest when my partner is happy.”

 

Fenris makes a considering noise, tilting his head as he looks at Hawke.

 

“Now _you’re_ staring,” huffs Hawke.

 

“I enjoy looking at your face,” says Fenris mildly. “I just enjoy… being with you. Very much.”

 

Hawke slides his hands up to settle on Fenris’s hips, heat suffusing his skin. It’s not worth dwelling on the insecure voice in his head that insists on calling him codependent and selfish. Hawke’s coped with too much death and loss in his life to consistently find his happiness in other people; deliberately reaching out and relying on Fenris and finding himself so reliably supported is something of a novelty.

 

“The feeling,” murmurs Hawke, “is very much mutual.”

 

oOo

 

They do, of course, take their time.

 

If he’s had penetrative sex before, Fenris doesn’t remember it. And a brief mental dig back into his own sexual history confirms that Hawke’s never actually been someone’s first fuck.

 

It’s a big responsibility.

 

“It is,” he insists, when Fenris laughs at him.

 

They’ve shed their clothes, and Fenris has spread out naked on his back as Hawke kneels on the edge of the bed and digs through the drawer where he keeps sex-related necessities. Fenris’s expectant sprawl is by far the laziest posture Hawke’s ever seen him adopt, propped idly up on one elbow, head tipped onto the pillows and knee drawn up, which is saying a lot when Hawke thinks about how Fenris has a natural slouch and a tendency to huddle and nap on the living room couch on the weekends.

 

“I’m just concerned,” says Hawke, finding lubricant and a condom. He checks the date on it by holding it right up in front of his nose, glasses long since abandoned somewhere on the floor. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve done this for someone else, and, well… we don’t know if you’re even going to like it.”

 

“All the more reason to try,” says Fenris. He pauses. “You are considerably more nervous about this than I am.”

 

“I don’t get why you’re not the slightest bit hesitant about letting me stick my fingers up your arse,” admits Hawke.

 

He looks over at Fenris, squinting to focus, and searches his face for what he honestly feels should be justifiable nervousness at letting Hawke do this for him. He doesn’t find anything other than calm anticipation. “Hawke,” says Fenris softly. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

 

“No, god,” sighs Hawke, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, that’s not it at all. You… trust me much more than I apparently trust myself. It’s a little daunting, knowing you’re so confident you want this from me. I’m not sure I can… give you what you’re expecting.”

 

“What exactly do you think will happen?” asks Fenris, arching an eyebrow.

 

“At best? You’ll have this experience ruined by someone likely to disappoint you,” says Hawke.

 

“And the worst case scenario?”

 

“I hurt you,” mutters Hawke. He settles down cross-legged next to Fenris’s hip and tries not to pout.

 

“You are making an assumption,” says Fenris.

 

Hawke blinks. “Am I?”

 

Fenris sighs and wraps his hand around his half-hard cock, stroking himself slowly. “Hawke. You are not the only person in the world that masturbates.”

 

Hawke makes a strangled noise, watching, rapt, as Fenris licks his finger and reaches down between his spread legs to stroke his exposed hole.  

 

“Well, okay,” says Hawke, his face burning. “I may… have neglected to consider that.”

 

“Perhaps I can begin,” says Fenris, his eyes fixed on Hawke’s face. “Would that work?”

 

Hawke abruptly can’t speak. He nods hurriedly instead.

 

Then Fenris turns all his attention to working himself open with deft fingers and Hawke basically ascends.

 

It’s easier for Hawke to get over his fear of failure when Fenris is so clearly enjoying the measured plunge of his own fingers and all Hawke has to do is watch and listen and clutch desperately at his clean sheets in an effort to slow the pounding of his heart.

 

When Fenris hisses, his eyelashes fluttering, and says, “I could use a hand,” in a ragged voice, Hawke startles back to life, climbing over Fenris’s legs to catch him gently by the wrist and lay him out on the bed.

 

Panting, Fenris looks up at Hawke, pupils dilated, face flushed. Hawke brushes strands of white hair off his sticky forehead and kisses his parted lips.

 

Thinking back, now, to his first inappropriate fantasies about Fenris, Hawke is almost embarrassed.

 

It was impossible to know where they’d end up, at the time. Hawke had been exhausted and flustered, immediately convinced that Fenris hated him, and all Hawke could think about as he carried boxes up to his apartment was that he wouldn’t mind finding out what Fenris looked like underneath him.

 

Turns out the answer is simple: bloody gorgeous.

 

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” Hawke says it quietly, against the heat of Fenris’s skin. He doesn’t think Fenris hears him but his belly twitches at the brush of Hawke’s mouth.

 

“Come closer,” huffs Fenris. Tucking his legs around Hawke’s waist, Fenris pulls their hips together. He threads his fingers through Hawke’s hair, tugging until Hawke looks up at him. “I can’t read the shape of your lips.”

 

“Are you ready?” Hawke says instead. He is, as a rule, an easily distracted creature prone to losing focus but if he’s honest with himself Hawke hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Fenris since they met. There’s nothing to distract right now; nothing but firm, warm skin and the delicate tension of Fenris’s taut belly.

 

Fenris groans, a rumbling full-body complaint. He tightens his grip, fingertips digging reflexively into Hawke’s thighs. “I’m _impatient_.”

 

“I could make a dad joke,” says Hawke. “But I won’t, because I understand the boundaries of propriety.”

 

The lube is somewhere on the bed, Hawke fumbling blindly for the tube until his fingers close around it. He gets it all over the fresh sheets before he manages to get it on his fingers, Fenris squirming when he traces a slick path down the silvery lines of his tattoos.

 

“Does that tickle?” The curls of ink dip down his thighs and meet the swell of his ass. Hawke goes a little lower, sinking two fingers into the tight heat of his body.

 

“That is not the word I’d use to describe it,” Fenris says raggedly, arching into the pressure of Hawke’s fingers inside him.

 

Hawke works him open with slow, careful strokes, responding in sympathetic arousal to the staggered rhythm of Fenris’s breaths until Hawke himself is flushed and panting, the pit of his belly a tight coil of tension and heat. An involuntary thrust has them both moaning as their cocks slide together, an overstimulated rush of contact that demands attention.

 

Biting his lip against the sudden throb of heat and pressure and the thrill of precome smeared against his belly, Hawke drops his forehead against Fenris’s chest and takes a moment to breathe.

 

By the time Hawke rolls on the condom, they’re both trembling, practically ready to fall apart. It’s a struggle to even hold himself up.

 

And when, finally, he pushes into Fenris, Hawke’s lips part around a silent, wondering “oh” of clandestine relief.

 

Beneath him, Fenris finds Hawke’s hand and winds their fingers together.

 

“Closer,” he demands quietly.

 

Hawke has never found it easier to obey.

 

oOo

 

On Monday night, Hawke makes a formal request to his supervisor to go down to part time hours in the fall.

 

Anders provides him with a list of college courses to register for in exchange for a homemade turkey sandwich and they sit in the break room together and discuss scheduling strategies and budgeting.

 

“This would not have been possible last year, when I didn’t have a roommate,” murmurs Hawke, calculating the hit to his income on his phone. “But as long as I work 25 hours a week, I should be fine for rent, utilities, and groceries.”

 

“I wouldn’t take more than two courses at a time, then,” says Anders. “If that’s easy, you can try three in the winter semester. Take night classes. Then you don’t have to adjust your sleep cycle.”

 

“I’ll be taking classes at Bethany’s college,” says Hawke wryly. “Do you think she’ll be embarrassed?”

 

Anders makes a disparaging noise and takes a bite of his sandwich. “I think you’re the only one that finds this embarrassing. Anyone can take these classes, Hawke. I went to nursing school with people your age and older.”

 

“Why must you be so reasonable?” demands Hawke. “Why can’t anyone allow me my miserable insecurities?”

 

“Blah blah blah,” mumbles Anders, not looking up from his phone. “I’m Garrett and I use sarcasm and humour as a defense mechanism to shield my soft heart.”

 

“I’m Anders and I’m self-conscious about my ginger hair,” retorts Hawke. “I have four cats and I unironically love hemp sweaters.”

 

“It’s not ginger,” says Anders. “It’s strawberry blond.”

 

“You are, quite literally, a red-headed stepchild,” says Hawke, taking a sip of his coffee.

 

“Do you want my help or not?” Anders is now pouting.

 

“I do,” says Hawke earnestly. “Needing your help and mocking you are not mutually exclusive states of being, in my opinion.”

 

“Your application deadline is in two weeks for these fall classes,” says Anders, deciding the only thing to be done about this conversation is to ignore Hawke’s commentary and continue undeterred. “I’m forwarding you the registration page.”

 

Hawke sighs. This is the point of no return, really. Now that he’s enlisted Anders to assist him, he won’t be able to back out. Anders will check in with Hawke every day to make sure he’s registered for the classes.

 

In September, Hawke is going back to school.

 

oOo

 

He tells Fenris, first, about two weeks later, when he’s officially registered, transcripts sent and tuition fees paid. It feels more real, now, especially when he checks his bank balance and experiences a quiet pang of loss.

 

The two of them are curled up on the couch, Hawke with his laptop while Fenris sleepily plays PS4, Dog at their feet, and Hawke says, “I’d like to have a dinner party on the weekend. What do you think?”

 

Fenris blinks, nodding slowly. “What’s the occasion?”

 

“I have begun the slow process of, eventually, going to nursing school,” Hawke says slowly. “I won’t be able to apply for a while yet, but I’ve registered for some prerequisite college classes in the fall. I thought… we could invite everyone over to tell them.”

 

Pressing pause on the controller, Fenris turns towards Hawke. “Is this because of Carver?” he asks carefully.

 

“I can see why the timing would make you think so,” admits Hawke. “I think it’s less about pleasing Carver and more about… pleasing myself. I think I’m ready to make a change. What… what do you think?”

 

Fenris responds by kissing him, which is really quite nice and goes a long way towards easing the nervous tension in Hawke’s shoulders. “I’m proud of you, Garrett,” he says. “I think that it can be… difficult to make that kind of decision. I find it encouraging.”

 

“Have you… been thinking of doing something similar?” asks Hawke curiously.

 

“Perhaps. I am unsure when I will be ready,” says Fenris. “But it’s comforting to know the options available.”

 

This time, Hawke kisses Fenris. “I’m going to make shepherd’s pie,” he says. “And cupcakes. I’ll get everyone else to bring the rest. Anyone you want to invite?”

 

Fenris shrugs. “Varric and Isabela.”

 

“Which means Merrill, as well,” says Hawke, nodding. “Aveline and Donnic. Anders, my friend from work. And obviously Bethany.”

 

“We don’t have enough chairs,” says Fenris.

 

“Well then,” says Hawke. “We should go to IKEA.”

 

oOo

 

“New chairs!” cries Bethany, barely five minutes after she’s arrived. “What’s going on? You’re planning something!”

 

“Take this casserole,” Aveline says to her. “It needs to be warmed up. What’s this about chairs?”

 

“There are new ones,” says Donnic. “Apparently that means something.”

 

“Good lord,” says Hawke. “They’re just chairs. Did you want me to invite everyone over without any place for them to sit, Bethany? Donnic, you’ve not met Fenris. Fenris, this is Aveline’s husband, Donnic.”

 

“A pleasure,” says Fenris, accepting Donnic’s handshake and giving him a nod.

 

“Do you like cards, Fenris?” Donnic hands him a bottle of wine. “We’ve brought this as well.”

 

“Thank you,” says Fenris uncertainly, passing the wine to Hawke. “I only know how to play solitaire.”

 

“Well, come on, let’s teach you how to play Diamondback.” Donnic pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and settles down on the couch.

 

“He cheats,” calls Hawke. “Watch him, Fenris. And keep an ear out for the door buzzer and let everyone in, please!”

 

Giving Donnic a wary glance, Fenris sits across from him in the armchair. “What are the rules?”

 

Donnic cuts the deck and shuffles it. “Well…”

 

“Are we the first?” asks Aveline, following Hawke into the kitchen.

 

“Isabela’s on her way up with Merrill. Varric’s running a little late.” Hawke sets the wine bottle on the table and digs around for the corkscrew. “Anders, too.”

 

“I can’t remember the last time everyone came over like this,” says Bethany, opening the oven to slide Aveline’s casserole in alongside the shepherd’s pie. “Really, Garrett, what’s going on? There must be _something_ for you to just suddenly decide to have a dinner party.”

 

“A person can’t just want to see all his friends?” demands Hawke defensively.

 

“Oooh, new chairs!” calls a voice from the living room.

 

Hawke re-enters to find Fenris exchanging a hug and a kiss with Isabela while Donnic takes an enormous salad bowl from Merrill.

 

“Fenris, this is my girlfriend, Merrill,” says Isabela. “I can’t believe I haven’t introduced you before now.”

 

“So lovely to meet you!” says Merrill, shaking hands enthusiastically with Fenris.

 

“It is a pleasure,” says Fenris. “Isabela has told me all about you.”

 

“I see Donnic’s gotten the cards out already,” Isabela says dryly, giving him a hug. “Aveline, your husband was about to fleece Fenris.”

 

“We’re not playing for money!” protests Donnic. “My wife is a police officer. I don’t _gamble_.”

 

“Did someone say gambling?” Fenris must have left the apartment door open because Varric lets himself in carrying a bottle of whiskey and a large foil-covered plate.

 

“No,” says Fenris, his mouth quirking into a grin. “Rather, a lack thereof. I disavow any knowledge of gambling occurring within this apartment.”

 

“How disappointing,” drawls Varric. “The last time we got together to play Wicked Grace, Hawke lost his pants.”

 

“You’ve been here less than _one minute_ ,” groans Hawke. “This is sabotage. I’m opening that whiskey, give it here.”

 

“Please tell me we’re not already talking about my brother in a compromising state of undress,” says Bethany, coming back into the living room holding a big platter of cheese and crackers. “I don’t need to know about these things.”

 

“Nobody does,” agrees Hawke. “Drinks? Who’s drinking what?”

 

“I’d love a glass of wine, please,” pipes up Merrill.

 

“If you’re opening that whiskey, I’ll have that,” says Isabela, flopping on the couch and scooping up the abandoned deck of cards. “Is there any Coke?”

 

“Hello, I’m sorry I’m late,” Anders announces miserably, as he comes in the door. He’s clutching a giant covered pot and sweating. “I made soup, which, in hindsight, was a poor choice, considering the weather.”

 

“Who doesn’t know Anders?” asks Hawke, looking around. “Fenris, this is Anders. Merrill, have you met? I think everyone else… oh, Donnic! Anders, this is Aveline’s husband, Donnic. Anders and I work together.”

 

“I’ve contributed to the reason you’re all here,” huffs Anders, adjusting his grip on the pot. “I assume I’ve missed the announcement.”

 

The room goes expectantly silent.

 

Meeting Hawke’s pleading eyes, Anders makes a chagrined face. “Oh. Well. Sorry?”

 

“I knew there was a reason for the chairs!” cries Bethany. “Come on, Garrett, spill it.”

 

Hawke takes the soup from Anders and sets it down on the coffee table. “I’m glad you’re all here,” he says to his staring friends. “I wanted you all to know… I’m going back to college this fall, so that I can apply to nursing school next year. It’s nothing to fuss over. I just thought, it’s been so long since we’ve gotten together...”

 

“You don’t need an excuse to celebrate, you tit!” cries Isabela, leaping up to throw her arms around him. “Of course we’re all proud of you!”

 

The next ten minutes are a confusing jumble of hugs and loud, enthusiastic cheers and congratulations.

 

Donnic gives him a very firm handshake after Aveline squeezes him so hard he briefly can’t breathe. Varric pours him a drink that’s far too large and slaps him hard on the back before pulling him down into a tight hug. Merrill kisses him on both cheeks, laughing delightedly.

 

Bethany turns very red and cries all over him.

 

On a trip to the kitchen to get more wine, Fenris catch him by the arm and pulls him into his bedroom.

 

“Okay?” he asks.

 

“Very okay,” whispers Hawke.

 

“Good,” says Fenris, before pushing Hawke up against the wall and kissing him fiercely.

 

“I have to admit, I’m enjoying all this physical affection and attention,” says Hawke, grinning stupidly. He cups Fenris’s face in his hands and kisses his forehead. “Fenris. Thank you. I… I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve you in my life.”

 

“I have a request,” Fenris says, tugging idly on the collar of Hawke’s shirt. “I realise this is probably not the best time to bring it up, but it must be planned in advance if you wish to accompany me.”

 

“Accompany you?” echoes Hawke. “Are you going somewhere?”

 

“Not immediately,” says Fenris. “I have not been back to Seattle in nearly a year. I thought to go back for Thanksgiving, to see Varania. Would you come?”

 

Fenris wants to introduce him to his sister.

 

Hawke can barely process this level of emotional excitement all at once. He’s going to cry or puke or lose control of his bodily functions in some humiliating way in a sad attempt to cope with the euphoria sweeping through him.

 

“I’d love to,” he says faintly. “I’d love to. I love you.”

 

Fenris goes very still against him, his eyes wide and dark in the dim light. In the next room, they can hear Isabela laughing while Varric tells a loud, raunchy joke.

 

Rewinding his words, Hawke licks his lips, heart beginning to pound. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to see the Space Needle.”

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris roughly. His fingers tighten in Hawke’s shirt and his brow furrows. “Hawke…”

 

Hawke opens his mouth to say—something. Reassurance, or comfort, or— _something_. Only before he can, Fenris rises up on his toes and crushes their lips together with such urgency that Hawke’s potential response becomes a startled moan that’s immediately swallowed by Fenris’s hot, slick mouth.

 

Everything so far between them has been careful and measured, a slow build towards— _this_ , apparently.

 

The kind of kiss that leaves Hawke quite literally breathless when Fenris releases him.

 

Hawke licks his lips and exhales shakily. There’s a warmth in the base of his belly. Fenris has started threading his fingers through Hawke’s hair, keeping him pressed against the wall as he cradles the back of his head, maintaining their proximity as though he’d like to curl around Hawke if their height difference and vertical position against the wall would allow for that.

 

“Garrett,” says Fenris softly. He kisses him again, will less force but no less intensity.

 

Then he continues to press kisses all over Hawke’s face—beard, nose, cheek, forehead, and eyelids.

 

“I’d love to,” Hawke repeats unsteadily, overwhelmed. “I really would. Thank you.”

 

oOoOoOo

 

When Hawke receives his acceptance letter to the nursing program a year and a half later, there’s nobody home.

 

He sits on the couch and has a little cry until Dog appears to lick the tears from his face, and then he texts Carver.

 

 **hawke** : i got in

 

 **carver** : knew you would!!!! so proud of you xx

 **carver** : in class, i’ll call you tonight

 **carver** : :)

 

Next he calls Bethany, who screams in his ear and then abruptly hangs up after yelling, “I’M COMING OVER AFTER DINNER.”

 

Then, dazed, he lies down on the floor and waits for Fenris to get home.

 

oOo

 

“Hawke? Where are you?”

 

Hawke opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. It’s quite possible he fell asleep on the fucking floor, like an idiot. “Right here,” he calls.

 

Fenris appears in Hawke’s peripheral vision, peering curiously down at him. “Did you fall over?”

 

“No,” says Hawke. He picks up the acceptance letter and holds it up to Fenris.

 

Raising his eyebrows, Fenris takes it. His expression doesn’t change as he reads it. When he’s finished, he folds it up carefully and then gets down on the floor with Hawke. Kneeling over Hawke’s hips, Fenris crouches down and cups his jaw with both hands, kissing him on the forehead.

 

“Congratulations” says Fenris quietly, removing Hawke’s glasses before brushing a kiss over the bridge of his nose.

 

Hawke smiles and slides his hands up to rest on Fenris’s hips. “Come a little bit closer.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Fenris obliges.

 

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [on tumblr](http://unicorncoalition.com). <3


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